There and Back
by chappysmom
Summary: "We need you to help us slay a dragon, Dr Watson. Mr Gandalf assures us you are ideally suited for our purposes." "A dragon?" John asked. "The ones in the zoo don't seem particularly threatening." Thorn gave him a wry smile. "A metaphorical dragon, doctor. One named Moriarty. Perhaps you've heard of him?"
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, Arthur Conan Doyle's, Peter Jackson's, or John Ronald Reuel Tolkien's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

Inspired by the fact that Martin Freeman is sometimes just too perfect for words—how could I resist putting John Watson in Bilbo Baggins' place? This is not a reincarnation fic, nor is it an attempt to faithfully recreate The Hobbit in the world of Sherlock … not quite. It's inspired by the Hobbit, so there will be elements that are familiar, but, um, no … no thirteen dwarfs, no dragon, no heaps of gold. Not exactly. Unless you squint a bit. This is the 21st century, after all.

* * *

John sat in front of his blinking computer screen and tried to think of something to blog about.

Really, since Sherlock died, why bother? Because while John did not think of himself as a boring person, he had to admit that without the cases with Sherlock, he didn't have much to blog about.

He hadn't written an entry since Sherlock had jumped off Barts' roof, and now was stuck with a classic writer's dilemma—he wanted to write, but had nothing to write _about_. It wasn't like he could blog about the patients he saw, what with medical confidentiality and all. His personal life … well, the less said about that waste land, the better. So what did that leave?

And so his cursor blinked at him, taunting.

It was almost a relief when the bell rang.

"John Watson?" the tall man at his doorstep asked.

John blinked at him, taking in the extreme … greyness … of the main's hair and clothing. Except for the white shirt under his grey tweed jacket, everything about him was grey, livened only by the somehow familiar twinkle in his blue eyes. "Can I help you?"

"I certainly hope you can," the man said jovially as John stepped back to let him in. "My name's Gandalf, but most people just call me Grey."

John nodded absently, still trying to place why the man seemed familiar. Something with … fireworks? He gestured up the stairs and turned to close the street door, then followed his guest up to the flat.

Grey was looking around the room with a sparkling interest, intrigued by everything, and John could only hope he hadn't inadvertently let in one of Sherlock's groupies. They had come out of the woodwork in the days following his friend's suicide, and it had just gotten down to a reasonable level in the last month. "Tea?" he offered.

"Oh, no. Thank you. Perhaps later," Grey said, taking the chair offered. "I came to see you on behalf of some clients of mine who could rather use your help."

"Me? That's flattering, Mr Gandalf, but I'm just a doctor. I hope you haven't confused me with Sherlock…"

"No, not at all. It is definitely you who we wish to hire. And, if you'll allow me to say it, you look as if you could use it."

"The work?" John asked, feeling insulted.

"No, Dr Watson, the adrenalin," said Grey with a smile. "A purpose other than attending sniffles as a stand-in at a local clinic. Something possibly worth blogging about instead of staring at a blinking computer cursor."

John looked guiltily at his laptop. How had the man known?

"At any rate, I feel I owe it to the son of my old friend, Bella. She'd hate to see your spirit wasting away here."

John's head had swung up at the mention of his mother's name. The surprise almost took away the sting of being told he was wasting away … almost. "You knew my mother?"

"Indeed," said the older man, "And you as well. Why, I helped host your tenth birthday party."

Of course, John thought. "The fireworks."

"You remember." The twinkle returned. "Yes, your mother was a good friend of mine, and between that and reading your remarkable blog, I thought you'd be just the person to help my clients."

"What kind of clients are you talking about, Mr Gandalf?"

"Please, call me Grey," he said, pulling out a card from his jacket pocket. "I am a consultant myself. I specialize in pairing up people who need help, and I think you are just the person to help my current clients with their … difficulties. They should be good for you, too."

He pushed himself to his feet, using a cane much more elegant than the one John had used when he met Sherlock. "Yes, I think this will do excellently. I'll have them call you. After all, you can always say no once you've heard them out, can't you? It does no harm to meet them, and it will be most beneficial for you. Yes, indeed." He walked toward the door, replacing his fedora on his head. "Good morning."

And he was gone, leaving John wondering. _Was _it a good morning?

#

He had tried a google search for the man, but it seemed Grey Gandalf didn't have an internet presence, and with the man no longer watching him from Sherlock's old chair, eyes intent and wise, the whole visit seemed unreal. If it hadn't been for the pasteboard card discreetly naming Shadowfax Enterprises, he would have thought he imagined the entire thing. He considered contacting Mycroft to ask him what he knew of the man, but something held him back—he just wasn't sure if it was a reluctance to invite Mycroft's interference or a continuation of the animosity he'd felt since Sherlock's suicide.

Still, he supposed that when these mysterious clients of Grey's called, he would talk to them. As long as it didn't seem shady or illegal … what could it hurt? Maybe he'd have something to blog about after all. And Grey had known his mother. Until Sherlock, John had never met a better judge of character than his mum.

The day went on with no calls, and he spent another night feeling oddly empty—bereft now not only of Sherlock's bracing company but of the promise of (maybe) something interesting and worthwhile to do.

He had no hours at the clinic the next day, so he spent the day puttering around and very firmly ignoring his laptop. No, he had nothing to blog about, thank you, and no reason even to look. He considered going to the shops since he was out of milk again, but he was feeling lethargic after his poor night's sleep and what was the point, really? He'd just sit here with the book he was reading. (A history book. Definitely not a murder mystery. Sherlock had ruined them for him.)

He was feeling so lazy, he decided in the end to make an early supper and then planned on lying on the couch watching telly for the rest of the night. He knew it was pathetic. He knew Sherlock would have been appalled, but for one night? How bad could it be?

He was just plating his supper when the bell rang. Who…? Maybe it was Grey again? Except, when he had said they'd call, John had assumed they meant on the phone…

He hurried down the stairs, and opened it, ready to apologize, when … he had no idea who this person was.

His first reaction on seeing the burly, tattooed man was to close the door on him. The world was still dangerous, after all, and Baker Street had had a slew of assassins living here not all that long ago, but there was something in the man's face that seemed … not unfriendly, quite, and there was no question he had a dangerous edge to him, but … not inclined to harm him.

Still, the way the man breezed in and up the stairs put John on edge. It was his home, damn it, and only Mrs Hudson was allowed to barge in. (Well, Mycroft did sometimes, also, but there seemed to be nothing John could do to stop that—but at least he knew Mycroft wasn't coming to murder him. If it ever came to that, Mycroft had people to do that for him.)

John followed the other man (Dale, he'd said) up the stairs, bewildered. About the only thing that was reassuring was that this was so like Grey's behaviour yesterday. If this was how his client introduced himself, though, John was not impressed.

He was barely at the top of the stairs when the bell rang again. "Go ahead," Dale told him. "The others should be right behind me."

Others? John turned back down the stairs to find a man with a trim, white beard on his doorstep. "William Fundinson," he said, introducing himself. "Are the others here yet?"

"Er," said John, feeling even less eloquent than usual. "One, upstairs. _How _many are coming?" But William was already heading up the stairs. John started to close the door but found a pair of young men politely pushing their way inside.

"This is the place, yeah? We saw old Bill coming in a minute ago. Who else is here? I'm Phil, by the way."

"Kyle," said the other, pulling off his coat and wiping his feet on Mrs Hudson's rug. "Nice to meet you. Upstairs, is it?"

Bemused, John leaned out the door this time, looking up and down the street for other visitors. He spotted the CCTV camera across the street pointing his way, and gave a shrug. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he wasn't feeling threatened. They all seemed nice enough, he supposed.

A crash from upstairs drew his attention and, shutting the door, he hurried up to 221B and … how had things dissolved into chaos so quickly? Dale and William were busily rummaging through his cupboards while Phil browsed through the books on the shelves. Kyle was holding the skull in his hands, looking utterly fascinated.

"Excuse me!" John said, indignant. "I'm sorry, but what do you think you're doing? You can't just go through my things!" Especially the skull, he thought. So many of the things in the flat were Sherlock's and were fraught with memories he was still hesitant to touch. It had been six months since his friend had died, and while John wasn't exactly prostrate with grief, that didn't mean he wanted complete strangers pawing through Sherlock's things.

He spun around at the bang from the kitchen. What the hell? William and Dale were pulling things out from the refrigerator and piling them on the table, looking as if they hadn't eaten for months. And, really, how old was some of that, anyway? John had been living on tea, toast, and takeout for months. He wasn't sure he'd want to eat any of the food in his own cupboards, much less serve it to guests, no matter how pushy.

He grabbed an old, frozen package of meat (he hoped) from William's hands. "I'm sorry, but you can't just go foraging in my freezer. I don't want to seem rude, but … it's just better if you … you just can't. I'm sorry."

William looked at him. "Apology accepted," he said, and then turned back to Dale, who was chopping onions on a cutting board, looking altogether too efficient with a knife, John thought.

Not that he was thinking clearly at all, at this point. He was feeling too flustered, and by the time the bell rang a third time, he was feeling fairly numb.

This time, at least, he recognized one of the people at his door—Grey was standing there with another man with dark hair and sharp blue eyes. "Thorn Durin," he introduced himself with a nod and John found himself silently backing away from the door. He wasn't intimidated, he told himself, so much as … awestruck? Even after the army and all too much familiarity with the way a Holmes could command a room, he didn't think he had ever met someone with so much natural presence.

"John Watson," was all he said, then, looking at Grey, "Is that everyone?"

"My dear doctor," said Grey, "I don't know how many have arrived yet."

John just shook his head. "Of course you do. You were standing up the street watching."

Grey looked impressed. "Not many would have seen us."

"Not many have lived with Sherlock Holmes, either," said John, waving his hand upstairs. "The party seems to be upstairs, though I can't vouch for the refreshments since_ nobody told me I was having guests_."

Grey had the grace to duck his head, but Thorn just headed up the stairs as if used to invading any space and making it his own. John trailed up the stairs, wondering exactly what was going on. Grey might have said he had clients with a need for John's skills (whatever he thought they were), but John had expected something more … professional, and less festive. He wasn't sure what was going on in his flat upstairs, but he was fairly sure that volume of levity was _not _professional.

With a glance at Mrs Hudson's shut door and a sigh. He wasn't sure what kind of business they were going to be discussing, but she would have appreciated a gathering that sounded as festive as the one upstairs did.

It was odd to feel so left out in his own flat, he thought once he was back upstairs. His guests (?) were a lively group. He gathered they all knew each other well, but hadn't seen each other in a while. They acted more like family than business associates, and he couldn't help a feeling of nostalgia. He had had a similar relationship to his army buddies, back in the day, and certainly Sherlock had felt more like a brother than a mere friend or flatmate.

It just seemed odd that his flat would be hosting a joyful reunion for complete strangers while he stood lonely on the outside.

Grey seemed to sympathize, though, and came to stand by him. "I should apologize for them, but they're enjoying themselves so much. I haven't seen them so happy in a long time."

John peered up at him. "And why is that? Never so happy as when invading someone's home?"

"No, my dear doctor. It's just that tonight they have hope." And he nodded and dove into the fray just as the doorbell rang again.

This time, it was a delivery man with an armful of pizzas.

Apparently they had decided John's pantry was insufficient after all.

#

Later, after a surprisingly amiable meal (considering John still felt like the odd man out as the rest talked about absent friends and alluded to unspoken secrets and plans) he felt oddly … resigned … to his flat having been invaded. It had been Grey Gandalf's fault they had come, after all. It had become obvious very quickly that the Durins and Fundinsons had thought they were expected. And, even if his guests had something like an edge of desperation, they were, well, _nice_.

He tried not to think about how Sherlock would have reacted to that innocuous little adjective. It was true, though. They were friendly and, if not precisely well-mannered, well, they weren't any worse than his army buddies had been. In fact, they reminded John a lot of his friends from the army—not quite reckless, but living on the edge of knowing that each day could be their last. Not that they seemed to be running in fear of their lives, but they had that feel … he'd seen it in the army and he saw it in desperately ill patients. An awareness that, while things are good right now, they could turn to catastrophe any moment.

And, really, it was the most life the flat had seen since Sherlock's suicide. The flat was almost bursting with it as his guests joked and laughed and even _sang _as the night went on.

Somehow, even though part of him wanted to be offended … part of him felt drawn to them, as to a bonfire on a bitterly cold night.

Finally, when the pizzas were down to scraps of crust and John was thinking about offering tea (until he remembered he was out of milk), they brought the conversation around to their business.

"We need you to help us slay a dragon, Dr Watson," said Thorn. "Mr Gandalf assures us you are ideally suited for our purposes."

"A dragon?" John asked. "The ones I've seen in the zoo don't seem particularly threatening."

Thorn gave him a wry smile. "A metaphorical dragon, doctor. One named Moriarty. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

#

(Note: With all due respect to Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Ori, Nori, Dori, Oin, and Gloin, it just really wasn't feasible to crowd fourteen people into 221B while keeping this remotely realistic. Five were hard enough. So, um, they had to sit this one out.)


	2. Chapter 2

"Moriarty?" John asked, mouth dry. "I'm afraid you're late. The man is dead."

Instead of looks of relief or disbelief from the company (gang? crew?), he got a solemn nod from Thorn, the obvious boss. "Yes, we know. Thanks to your colleague, Mr Holmes. I was sorry to hear of his death."

John inclined his head. "Thank you. But—since Moriarty is dead, what do you need me for?"

"There's a story there, Dr Watson," said William.

"Call me John, please."

"Thank you. John," he responded with a smile. "The shortest version is that Moriarty—through one of his shell corporations—coerced my clients, the Durin family, out of their land and family business a decade ago. They've been trying ever since to get it back, but with no luck. We're hoping that, now that the head of the beast is dead, we can reclaim what rightfully belongs to them."

John pulled in a deep breath. "That sounds reasonable, but what do you need me for? I'm not a lawyer."

"No, but I am," said William with a smile. "I've worked for the Durin family my entire life, as has Dale, though he's more like a, well…"

"Bodyguard," said Dale with a grin that was somehow more gleefully dangerous than friendly, and John was reminded again of the assassins Mycroft had warned him about months ago.

He gave another nod, though, and looked at Phil and Kyle. "So you two are…?"

"The heirs, basically, assuming Uncle Thorn gets the mountain back."

"Mountain?"

"The family land that Moriarty stole from us," said Thorn, voice fierce, "Was a mountain—and the mines underneath it."

"Profitable mines, I'm sure," said John, "But I'm still not sure what you need me to do."

Thorn leaned forward. "I've read your blog, Dr Watson, and think you not only have skills that would be useful to us, but also a need to make your own strike against Moriarty and the evil works he left behind?"

John swallowed, unused to being the focus of attention for six pairs of very intent eyes. "I'm a doctor," he said finally. "All right, I was in the army, but it was the medical corps. You need a team of lawyers, not a doctor … legal battles only get metaphorically bloody."

"That would be true … if all we planned to do was file yet another suit," Thorn said, and this time it was his eyes that lit with danger. "As it happens, we need to take more … direct … action. And time is of the essence."

John leaned back in his chair, trying not to ignore the stirring of adrenalin in his gut. "What kind of direct action?"

"When Moriarty stole our land, he also spread lies about us, about me," Thorn told him, eyes intent on his face. "I had caused him too much trouble—it's how I got my nickname, as a thorn in his side. So, in return, he ruined my reputation in such a way that the remaining shareholders that aren't already his stooges are disinclined to believe my return would be beneficial."

John licked his lips. That tactic was all too appallingly familiar. He looked around at the roomful of sincere, hopeful faces and wondered how many other good, innocent men Moriarty had ruined for no reason other than that he could. "So why do you need me?"

"We've learned that the original plans for his slander campaign are still intact—proof that I was framed. If I can get my hands on them … well, there will still be a legal battle, but it will be one I will be armed to win."

"The plans," said William, "Are in the main office. We need you to get them for us."

John almost wanted to laugh. "Me? I don't know what you think they teach at medical school these days, but safe-cracking isn't on the curriculum."

"We know that, Dr Watson," said Grey. "We don't expect you to break into the safe, but we do need your help getting past security."

Thorn nodded. "The person in charge of security, to be precise. We don't know much about him, and that's deliberate on their part. He's known only as _Smog_-he can't be seen, can't be defended against, but he's everywhere. Your job would be getting past _him_ and keeping him distracted. We would do the rest. No safe-cracking necessary."

John was doing his best not to stare or laugh hysterically, but really, what on earth were these people doing asking him for help? Not that he wasn't sympathetic for their plight. He was. He could easily believe that Moriarty had wronged them and held them off all this time. The attack on Thorn's reputation, too, was hauntingly familiar, but … he was no Sherlock Holmes. He didn't know anything about security systems. He wasn't a thief. He could barely pick a lock.

He looked at Grey now, and asked again, "Why me?"

"Because you're the man for the job, John Watson," he told him, eyes fathomless as he caught John's gaze. "You may not realize it, but you can rise to meet this challenge just like you have met countless others—being shot in Afghanistan, partnering with Sherlock Holmes, facing down Moriarty _successfully_. You have layers of depths, John, that allow you to rise to unexpected heights." He leaned forward and said, "And, again, this is your chance to strike back against Jim Moriarty, even if indirectly. Sherlock may have seen to his death, but don't you want to strike a blow of your own? Payback for the Pool, perhaps?"

John just stared. How did the man know these things? And the thing was, he really did. He didn't hate many things, but he hated Jim Moriarty with a passion.

"I don't know how to defeat a security system, though. I barely know enough about computers to post a blog entry!"

Phil turned his head. "You don't need to. You just need to know enough to get there. Uncle's got a, well, key, you could call it. It will get you in the back door, and I can manage the server. The physical breach should cover the electronic assault. We need you to distract Smog so we can do it."

"There are five of you," John said. "Why bring in someone else?"

"Moriarty—and therefore the people at the company—know all of us," Thorn told him. "There are records, photos, security alerts… we haven't been entirely … above the law these last ten years. If we were found, things could go badly—but not if we get to the files we need."

Grey looked utterly calm as he said, "You, John, are both an unknown factor and one too-well known. Anyone in Moriarty's network will recognize you, but not in connection to the Durins and their problems. No-one will expect you to go near Erebor … but even if you are recognized, well … your reputation precedes you. They'll think it has something to do with Sherlock. And in the meantime, this can't be harder than breaking into Baskerville, can it?"

John really didn't want to think about Baskerville. "That was different. Sherlock had a pass he'd lifted from his brother."

He was wavering, though. These men all seemed so earnest and so convinced he could help them.

And, really, what was he doing with himself? He was living a perfectly ordinary life. He had a flat, a job, friends. Well, some, anyway. If he was being honest with himself, though, he missed Sherlock, not only because he was his best friend, but for the excitement he had added to John's life. There had been a reason John had joined the army instead of getting a dull job at a medical practice somewhere—he had wanted the challenge, the variety that came out in the field. He had never wanted a desk job with regular hours and routine illnesses.

Like what he was doing now.

It was totally absurd that he was even considering doing this, he thought. He might have helped Sherlock on cases, but he couldn't fool himself. He'd been handier with a gun or with medical treatment than he ever had been with solving a case.

But, that's not what was needed here, was it? They just needed someone to divert security's attention while they got what they needed. That required sheer nerve more than any technical expertise. A distraction.

And courage was something John had always had in spades.

Finally, he nodded. "I'll do it."

#

It was late by the time they were done talking and planning. John arranged to meet them the next morning for the drive north, but by the time he'd packed a bag (not forgetting his medical kit or his gun because it would be stupid not to have them), it was past 1:00. To his surprise, though, he fell asleep right away, and had the first dreamless sleep he'd had since before Sherlock died.

This meant, of course, that he woke late, and had to run to catch the others. He counted his blessings that he had packed last night, or who knew what he would have forgotten? The fact that he'd left the flat without a handkerchief was a small price to pay. He might hope that he'd get more use from a handkerchief than he would from his gun or his medkit, but he had a feeling they'd end up being more useful. Sherlock had always mocked him for carrying a handkerchief, anyway. "_It's the 21st century, John_," he would say, but they had come in handy as makeshift bandages often enough that John just ignored him. He just hoped he wouldn't regret not having one now.

He was out of breath when he caught up with the others. (How had Sherlock managed to get a taxi whenever he needed one?) "Sorry," he said as he slung his bag into the back of the van. "Couldn't get a cab."

"No worries, Dr Watson," said Kyle, handing him a paper cup of lukewarm tea as he settled into his seat.

"John, please," he said, looking around at the rest of the group. They all looked more rested than he was, which made sense—unlike him, they had known this little adventure was coming. He chuckled to himself. Well, at least he didn't have any milk to go sour if this took more than a couple of days. He realized he hadn't let Mrs Hudson know, though, and pulled out his phone to send her a text.

"Who are you texting, doctor?"

John looked up to see Thorn watching him suspiciously.

"My landlady," he said. "She worries ever since… well, she worries, and I didn't have a chance to tell her I was going out of town." The other man nodded, but there was a look in his eye that John didn't like. "Do we have a problem?

"No," said Thorn. "It's just that this … it's important to keep this covert."

"I understand that, but believe me. We'd be in more trouble if she panicked and thought I was missing and contacted Sherlock's brother." That was actually a good point, thought John. Even though he'd been discreet about it, Mycroft had been keeping an eye on him. (John wasn't stupid, after all—or blind.) Would he worry at John leaving town with a group of strangers? Especially strangers with sketchy backgrounds, bringing him on a road trip to break into a company that belonged to the now-deceased Jim Moriarty?

It was possible that Mycroft would indeed be worried.

John squinted at his phone, thinking. Should he send Mycroft a text as well? Or would that just draw attention to an expedition that was better off staying beneath his radar, if at all possible?

Decided, he put his phone away and sipped at his tea—it was dreadful and barely even warm now, but it had been thoughtful of Kyle to provide it. Comradely, almost. The group was obviously close and well-used to working together, like his unit had been in the army. Even if he weren't truly part of the group himself, being surrounded by that brothers-at-arms atmosphere was comforting, almost restful. He'd forgotten how that felt, because while Sherlock had always had his back, his company had never been _restful_. Sherlock had been too sharp, too edgy, and while they had had long, quiet hours together at the flat, John had always felt like he was on call—the only backup available for a man who might need him at a moment's notice. He' forgotten what it felt like when that edginess was shared among a group of like-minded, ready friends.

Watching the traffic as Dale steered the van along the city streets and toward the motorway, John smiled. He was glad he had come after all.

#

"John? John. Wake up."

John blinked up at Phil and then struggled up in his seat. "What?"

"You fell asleep," he told him. "But we're stopping so Dale can stretch his legs and I thought you'd want to, too."

John nodded, and then wished he hadn't as his neck complained. "Where are we?"

"Trollshaws rest stop. Come on. Let's get some food."

Climbing out of the van, John felt about eighty years old. Those seats really aren't meant for sleeping, he thought, trying to stretch and feeling his spine creak.

"All right there, John?" asked William, and John felt almost guilty. The man had to be at least ten years older than he was, and he wasn't complaining. But then, he probably hadn't been shot, either, and John's shoulder was definitely unhappy at the moment.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," John said with a smile. "How long was I out?"

"About ninety minutes, nothing to worry about. We kept you up late last night."

"No later than you were, I'm sure."

"No, but this isn't your cause, and Grey didn't give you much warning."

"You noticed that, did you?" John asked ruefully.

"I'm afraid it was fairly obvious, lad," said the lawyer with a gentle smile. "For a moment I was afraid you were going to faint."

"Now you're just exaggerating," John said, protesting. "I was surprised, yes, but never that bad!"

The man chuckled. "Maybe not, but you should still probably expect some teasing about the expression on your face when you protested you weren't a thief."

"It was adorable," said Kyle, bouncing up behind them. "But that's all right Dr Watson. We've all learned to do things we might not otherwise have done."

John wasn't sure if this was meant to be reassuring. "What kind of things?"

"Nothing too criminal, don't worry."

John wasn't used to feeling this out of his depth. "Why would that make me worry?" he asked with a laugh, but he did a bit. He and Sherlock might have skirted some minor laws here and there while investigating a case, but he wasn't a criminal. Working outside the law was very definitely outside his comfort zone.

But, still … they had been driven to this by Moriarty, he reminded himself. Much like Sherlock had been hounded right off the Barts roof. Good, desperate men were still desperate, and could well be forced to do things they wouldn't have otherwise done. Like, say, shooting a cabbie through a window to save the life of someone you'd just met.

He trailed behind as they all went inside, excusing himself to visit the loo. When he came back, the others were gathered around plastic tables with their food. Except … "Where are Phil and Kyle?"

"They said something about the arcade," Dale said, and John was reminded again how young the two were. They should be at Uni, not trekking across country to break into a corporation held by a criminal mastermind who'd stolen it from their family.

John looked at the rapidly dwindling pile of food on the table and said, "I'll get them. They shouldn't be missing meals at their age."

He grabbed one of the greasy bags, peering inside to make sure there were burgers and not just chips, and then headed toward the arcade. He was concentrating so hard on scanning for the two missing boys, he didn't see the thugs coming up behind him until it was too late.

#


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey!" John said, dropping the bag as a heavy hand came down over his mouth and he was yanked into the hallway.

He struggled, army training immediately coming to the fore, but even as he jabbed the man in the stomach and squirmed away, they were joined by two more who tackled/bustled/harried him through a service door. His hope that they were ordinary thugs faded quickly as they efficiently secured him with zip ties before pulling a bag over his head, and lifting him by the arms and feet to carry him away. All in a matter of seconds.

No, John thought dizzily. This wasn't happening. He was not being kidnapped in broad daylight by a scarily efficient trio, because … why? It didn't make any sense.

He thought he heard a noise behind them, and gave a sudden twist and kick, falling to the floor with a thud, gratified at the grunt from the man holding his feet.

And yes, he was sure now. He could hear Kyle yelling as he came chasing after them, the idiot. What was he thinking? He was going to get himself killed, and John very much did not want to be responsible for the deaths of any more friends.

His captors stopped their efforts to pick him up now, and John could hear them moving between him and the footsteps pounding down the hallway. More than one set of footsteps, John thought as he cursed himself for letting this happen. He would rather have stayed in his quiet, safe, boring flat than put any of this group into additional danger.

He pulled again at his bonds, remembering the tactics the army had taught him as he lifted his arms and then snapped them quickly against his spine, trying to break the zip tie holding his wrists, hoping nobody was watching.

"Oi!" came Kyle's voice. "Let him go!"

"Go away, kid. You don't want to be involved in this," one of them said, his voice a low growl.

"He's my friend. Leave him alone!" And then there was a scuffle and a thud. Then other, familiar voices yelling. Five against three, thought John, considering Dale's size and fierce attitude, Thorn's determination. Maybe nobody would be hurt. Maybe this was doable. Maybe he hadn't just ruined everything.

But then he felt hands pulling him to his bound feet, and then the prick of a knife at his throat.

"Get back, or I'll kill him."

There was no doubt the man meant it, John thought. There was no fear, no hesitation or stress in his voice. Just a firm threat.

More than a bit not good.

He couldn't see, but he could hear the others grumbling and making threats as he was being pulled down the hallway. "This is not the way to abduct someone," he said, trying to buy time.

"No?" The voice rumbling behind his ear was almost amused. "It seems to be working to me."

"Really? In front of witnesses? In a rest stop filled with security cameras? Trust me. I have experience in this area." John was clenching his fists now, trying to work the blood flow back in his wrists without letting on that he'd weakened the ties holding him. "They have alarms you know, and not just the kind for _fire_. The police could be on their way already. It's not like you were exactly subtle. Certainly that lot back there weren't."

"We were just trying to help!" protested Kyle, but his voice was cut off with a muffled "Ow!" as if someone had jabbed an elbow in his ribs.

"Right, a lot of help, because having a knife to my throat is so much better. Not _alarming _at all," John said, wondering how dense his new friends were, wondering how much more he could hint without clueing in the kidnappers. He wished he could slow down their progress, but with his feet tied, there wasn't much he could do, short of picking them up altogether and becoming a dead weight—not the best idea with a knife at his throat.

"Just shut up," muttered the man behind him, and John could feel the twist in his torso as the man glanced behind him … which was the moment when the fire alarm went off.

Acting instantly, John pulled his hands apart and reached up to grab the hand holding the knife while kicking back with his feet.

Pulled off balance, the kidnapper stumbled forward, arm still wrapped around John as they both fell to the floor, but John did not loosen his grip on the arm with the knife until he felt his assailant being pulled off him and a breathless voice said, "We've got to get out of here, before security and the fire department come. We don't have much time."

John missed some of what followed as he curled on the floor, coughing as he tried to catch his breath. (He made a mental note not to fall to the ground with attackers right on top of him in the future.) He was reassured, though, when hands came to pull the bag from his head, showing a group of familiar, worried faces.

"Smart thinking, with the alarm," Dale said as he used the kidnapper's knife to cut the tie at his ankles. "And getting your hands free. Risky move, though."

John nodded, still feeling like a landed fish as he gasped for air. "Glad you got the hint."

"That was Thorn," was all Dale said, as he reached a hand to help John to his feet. "Come on. We've got to get out of here. We can't afford to attract the wrong kind of attention."

John gave another nod as he glanced up and down the hallway, looking for CCTV cameras, noting the three kidnappers lying on the floor, secured with their own ties. "Right. Is everyone okay? Kyle?"

"Just winded. What say, boss? Out the back?"

Looking over at Thorn, John winced. The man looked furious, and it was all his fault. Not exactly an auspicious beginning … though, his friendship with Sherlock had started with him being kidnapped, too. Maybe it was a good sign after all?

But looking at Thorn's thunderous expression, John didn't think he could count on that. He'd been a member of the group for less than a day, and had already drawn the wrong kind of attention.

He wasn't sure how, though. His face might be familiar because of his connection to Sherlock, but Trollshaws wasn't exactly familiar stomping ground. There might be areas of London he'd tread warily because of his work with Sherlock, but … here? It didn't make sense.

If someone had wanted to attack the group, wouldn't they have gone after one of the boys? They might be taller, but didn't look like fighters … though there were two of them. John had been walking alone and, well, he knew he looked unassuming and nonthreatening. They might have picked him because he looked like the best target.

The only thing he was sure of was that it hadn't been random. That had not been a mugging, or a hostage situation. (Well, until it _became _a hostage situation.) It had been an abduction by experienced professionals. John still thought it was crazy that he had had enough experience in these matters to know. How many times had he been kidnapped while working with Sherlock? Starting with that first night, when Mycroft had him dragged off to that warehouse… Hmm. Could it have been Mycroft?

It seemed unlikely. He had made his opinion of Mycroft's random kidnappings clear. (_Don't!_) And while he was sure that, were he in danger, Mycroft would have no compunction against sending in a SWAT team to rescue him forcibly, he was reasonably sure that had not been what happened here. First, Mycroft's men were almost always dressed like, well, Mycroft's men. Then, even had they been in disguise, these three had not acted like an extraction team. They hadn't once said anything like, "We're here to save you, Dr Watson," for example. They had also not only tied him up (which would limit his mobility during an escape), but they had_ held a knife to his throat_. He didn't think that was something Mycroft would countenance. Even for a Black Ops team that had to cover their tracks.

In short, it was a mystery, he thought as he piled into the van with the others, Grey already in the driver's seat, as if he'd known they were in trouble. He heard Thorn ask about that, ask where the older man had been during the fight.

"Looking ahead for trouble," Grey had replied.

"How did you know we needed help?"

"Looking back," he answered with a laugh. "Besides, Thorn, it's you. Of course you got into trouble."

Thorn gave a short bark of a laugh. "It wasn't me this time, old man. It was your so-called expert, getting himself snatched … what was that about, Watson?"

"I've no idea," John said. "Though it seems unlikely that's it's unconnected with this little venture, doesn't it?"

"Indeed," said Grey. "We'll need to be careful. And I think we need to make another stop."

"As long as it doesn't slow us down," Thorn grumbled.

"You've waited ten years, Thorn. Surely another day won't matter?"

John watched as Thorn pinned the older man with a glare that could have melted steel. "Why? What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, just a little research…."

#

"This is your idea of research?" Thorn asked, voice dripping in sarcasm, looking around the elegant hotel, filled with holiday-goers.

Grey professed surprise, but John saw the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Not all information can be gleaned from seedy informants or the internet, Thorn. Be patient."

"But … The Rivendell Hotel?"

"Be. Patient. I know you don't like anyone from his background, but I assure you, Alfred Rond is an expert in his field, and just the kind of man you'll want in your corner."

"Such an expert, he's running a _hotel_?" John almost winced at the scepticism.

"He owns it, Thorn. He doesn't run it. And trust me. Didn't I promise you I would help?"

Thorn cast a dirty glance John's way. "Yes, so far your help has been invaluable."

The worst part, thought John, was that he wanted to protest, but found he couldn't. So far, all the trouble they'd had on this trip had been his fault. Maybe this detour would be helpful, though? Enough to balance his so-far negative contribution?

He wondered, too, though—what kind of research did one do at a hotel filled with people concentrating more on getting a tan than in helping right an injustice?

It was a beautiful place, though, even if everyone in it seemed a mile taller and light-years more elegant than he was. Sherlock would have fit in perfectly, if he could ever have brought himself to relax. John spared a moment to try to picture Sherlock reclining on one of the lounge chairs, slathered with sunscreen to protect that pale skin of his. He'd be squinting in the sun, thinking, and he'd be reading … no, it wasn't possible. He couldn't imagine Sherlock reading any of the glossy magazines he saw scattered around. Even when he was in disguise, he picked newspapers. In fact, John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock pick up a magazine of any kind. The only periodicals he ever read were of the scientific journal type. He'd even read John's medical journals when they came, he remembered…

"Daydreaming, Dr Watson?"

John blinked at Phil's smiling face, dragged out of his reverie. "How many times do I have to tell you to call me John?"

The young man's face broke into a smile. "Another three or four times should do it. I was never the fastest learner at school."

"That's true," piped in his brother. "He spent more time at his desk after hours than he did while school was in session."

"At least I was sitting with tutors instead of being in detention," said Phil, hitting his brother's arm.

"Maybe," said Kyle, "But I was having more fun."

"Boys," came a stern voice from ahead and John looked up to see Thorn watching them.

"See? Now you've got me in more trouble with your uncle," he said, staring at a table of three men apparently arguing about vegetables.

"You'll get used to it," Kyle said cheerfully. "We did."

"Well, you're his nephews. He was rather obliged to forgive you," John told him. "That's not true for me."

Phil gave him a friendly shoulder-bump. "Not true. He knows that wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" John wasn't sure even he believed that, much less Thorn. "I'm the one who let myself get snatched."

"But you got yourself out, too," Kyle told him eagerly. "He was impressed by that."

"I doubt it," said John morosely.

"No, he was," agreed Phil. "And you were grabbed trying to look after us—that's not something he's likely to forget."

"If you say so." John shrugged. "So, any idea why we're here?"

"Nope, but I'm not complaining."

John looked over to see Kyle ogling the long-legged women by the pool, only to be smacked upside the head by his brother. "Show some class!"

"What? I've got class? I've got _loads _of class."

"Yeah, lower-middle class," Phil told him with a snort. "We don't want to attract attention, remember?"

"That's right," Dale's voice came from behind them. "So you might want to actually keep up with the others?"

Damn it, thought John, when had the others gotten so far ahead? He picked up his pace with a mental curse. You'd think with all his experience following Sherlock, he'd be better at this. Really, this entire trip was doing wonders for his self-esteem.

#

His self-esteem wasn't doing much better hours later, either. The entire group had been welcomed by Mr Alfred Rond, owner of a chain of luxury hotels but also, more importantly, an expert in corporate history. (A field of study John hadn't even known existed.)

He had provided the company a place to stay for the night and free room service (since they didn't have the correct attire for the dining room). But then as the evening's progressed, he invited Grey, Thorn, William, and John to a meeting. Leaving the boys with strict instructions to behave with Dale, the rest of them had gone to his private office.

The view was stunning as the moonlight streamed across the floor, John thought. It was so easy to forget, living in a city, how bright the moon could be.

"I'm surprised you have come to me," Rond told them. "At this time, at least. Surely the time to have tried to reclaim your lost land was a decade ago?"

"No," said Thorn. "Things have changed, we won't have a better time than we do right now."

"Ah," said Rond, giving a subtle sideways glance at John. "Moriarty's death, you mean."

Thorn's voice was fierce as he said, "Yes. The head of the beast is gone—now is our chance to strike."

Rond tilted his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps, but the beast's body is strong, and until it knows it's dead, will put up a fight—or grow a new head, like the one in its security department, already filling the vacuum left by the spider's passing."

"We just need to get in the building," said Thorn. "The proof we need to reopen our case is in their database."

"And you don't think Smog is protecting that data in his position as head of security?"

"I'm sure he is," Thorn said, "When he's undistracted."

Rond's eyebrows lifted. "And where do you expect to find this distraction."

"That would be Dr Watson's role," said Grey.

"An ex-army doctor with a penchant for solving mysteries?" Rond's voice was too polite to be openly sceptical, thought John, yet he managed to convey his disbelief.

"And a desire to strike against Moriarty and all his works," John said firmly, tired of remaining silent.

"I hadn't realized you'd added Special Ops to your skillset Dr Watson."

John smiled tightly. "I had a crash course—also known as living with Sherlock Holmes."

#

* * *

(Note: I have no idea if the self-defence type moves John used against the kidnappers here are remotely feasible without getting your throat cut. Don't try this at home. Further, I don't know anything about corporate security other than what I've gleaned from watching Timothy Hutton on "Leverage." If these plot details seem sketchy, please just squint a bit and move on.

Also, may I just say that finding feasible, real-world names for Tolkien's characters-names that work but let you know "who" the character is? This is by far the hardest part of squeezing these two totally different worlds and stories together. Just saying)


	4. Chapter 4

Rond smiled. "It will take exceedingly good luck to distract him, Dr Watson. The Smog security team is legendary. But, assuming you do your job so that Thorn's team can get in to the files, and you all manage to escape safely, there's still the encryption to deal with. I can assure you that this will not be easy."

Thorn nodded calmly. "We have a … key … you might say that we're fairly confident will take care of that."

Rond raised an elegant eyebrow. "Fairly confident?"

He shrugged. "It's hard to judge its veracity until we have the actual data to work with. It's none of your concern, though."

John watched him give a sideways glare at Grey, as if he couldn't understand why any of this was Rond's concern at all. Thorn had a point, too. If it were him, he wasn't sure he would trust Rond, either. While he had been nothing but generous and was clearly an old friend of Grey's, John still wasn't sure what they were doing there.

"I could help with that," Rond said.

Oh, thought John. That was why.

"And how do you propose to do that?" Thorn asked, glare even more intense. "Do you have copies of stolen security data on hand?"

Rond just looked down his long nose at him and calmly said, "Naturally not. I do, however, have some experience with security and am familiar, shall we say, with the system Moriarty and Smog started with. You might even say I designed it. They may well have added on additional layers of security, but that doesn't mean I didn't leave a back door to get back in."

"Does that mean we don't need to go there at all, then?" asked William.

"No, it's not that kind of access," said Rond. "There are things you need to be in the physical location to be able to do. However, if you show me your key, I might be able to tell you if it's valid."

Thorn just glowered. "And we should trust you with this, why? You haven't volunteered your aid in the last ten years. Nor have you shown me any reason to believe that you can be trusted with it now—this is our lives we're talking about. What's stopping you from taking the key for yourself and selling us out to Smog before we even get there?"

Grey shook his head reprovingly. "Thorn, surely you don't believe I would lead you astray? You may not have reason to trust Rond, but I assure you that I do. I have never seen him fail where honour is concerned. If he promises to provide information and not use it against you or for himself, he will abide by that."

Thorn made a small noise of disbelief. "I'm not even sure I trust _you_ that much, Grey."

His friends gave small nods, and John was left wondering himself. What, really, had he gotten himself into? There was so much distrust clogging the room, this seemed more a meeting of thieves than one between trustworthy men.

John hadn't missed the look Rond gave him when he mentioned them all getting out of Erebor safely, because, really, what proof did he have that any of them would come after him if something went wrong?

Well, they already _had_, he told himself. At Trollshaws. When he got into trouble, they had come to help him out of it.

Except, of course they had. He hadn't done his job for them yet. They still needed him. But—what if something went wrong inside Erebor? What if he went in to face this metaphorical dragon of theirs and got himself eaten while they scampered out the back with their treasure? He could imagine all kinds of nasty things a company of Moriarty's would do to intruders, and shooting him dead on sight would be the kindest.

Really, what reason did he have to trust any of them?

Well, other than that his mother had known Grey. Add to that Rond's sterling reputation … though riches could cover all kinds of unsavoury habits … but still. Those two factors were in their favour.

And then, well, he emliked/em these men. Thorn might be cranky (as one could expect of anyone whose nickname was that prickly), but he seemed sincere and dedicated. William was nothing if not gentlemanly and his brother Dale fierce and loyal. And then, Phil and Kyle, well … John tried to tell himself he wasn't being silly, that he wasn't deluding himself by thinking about his army buddies and how much these five reminded him of them. He tried to tell himself that he wasn't just being nostalgic and lonely and pathetic. He was here to help these good people against Jim Moriarty—still generating evil months after his death.

He wondered what Sherlock would say about them, if he would read Thorn and his motley band as trustworthy or not. John thought they could be trusted, but he also knew there were limits—they might well be willing to help him out, but if it came to saving him or one of their own…?

"John?"

He blinked and looked up to find Grey watching him with concern. Which, considering how the man practically seemed to read his mind would fit because if roles were reversed, he'd be concerned with his consultant thinking these thoughts, too.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"You have a say in this, too. Do you think Rond can be trusted?"

John looked over at the elegant man in his custom suit—as far a contrast as you could get from Thorn with his beaten leather and denim. His eyes were wise, though, as if he'd seen years and ages more life than normal—something you'd think John would be used to, even if it was different than the mental X-ray the Holmeses carried around.

John liked to think he had inherited some of his mother's sense of people, though, and while Thorn and Rond might not trust each other, they both seemed trustworthy to him. They might travel in widely different circles (an understatement of epic proportions), but then, so did he and Mycroft. He might disagree with Sherlock's brother about any number of things (like, say, sharing childhood stories of your brother with a psychopath), but he had never questioned that Mycroft had a code of conduct as strong as John's own.

He saw the same thing here, with Rond. In fact, he reminded John of Mycroft, though he couldn't say why. The man seemed almost amused by Thorn's prickly attitude, but he looked like he honestly was interested in helping. He might not be willing to go further than his hospitality tonight, but if he could help them without too much trouble for himself, he would.

So, John nodded. "I think so. To a point, anyway. I don't think he'll steal from you or sell you out—but I don't think he'd go so far as to rescue you if you get into trouble. It's not his 'thing,' but for this? I'd say yes—and it sounds like you could use his help. In my opinion, you should take him up on it."

"There, you see?" Grey said, beaming.

Thorn just scowled. "Of course you think so, Grey. You're the one who brought us here… but, you're right. We do need help."

John had rarely heard a tone of voice so grudging, not since the last time Sherlock had been forced to say "please" to his brother, but he kept his face straight.

"Very well then," said Rond. "Let's see what you've got."

#

It was hours later, in the wee smalls of the night, that John woke to a hand on his shoulder. "John? Wake up. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" He squinted at the clock. What was William even doing awake?

"Thorn's orders. He heard something that made him wary and … we'll explain later. Get up."

John did. He'd had too many years in the army to be able to disregard a direct order like that. It wasn't long before he was yawning across the back of the van at the boys. "Where's Grey?"

Thorn's jaw tightened. "He's not coming. Or, not until later. Apparently Rond had a special … _meeting_ after we left and it's better for us to leave—especially if we want you with us, doctor."

"Me?" John felt his eyebrows lift. "What about me?"

"It sounds like someone is reluctant for you to help us, so Grey is doing his part to appease them before they can stop us."

Mycroft, thought John. It had to be. Though … he checked his phone. No messages, no missed calls. If Mycroft were that concerned about him, wouldn't he at least have called to emask/em if John needed help or were in danger?

He snorted to himself. No, of course he wouldn't. This was Mycroft Holmes they were talking about. He was high-handed enough to act first and ask questions later. Still, though. It was insulting. It wasn't like John was a child to be looked after. Or like he and Mycroft had been on friendly terms these last six months.

He couldn't decide if he was flattered at the man's ongoing care and attention or insulted that the man who had betrayed his own brother (however inadvertently) was still interfering in John's life.

John was happy to nap in the back of the van until, about 5:00, they pulled over at another rest stop. The thought of a cup of hot tea was altogether appealing, thought John as he climbed out, legs creaking. He wasn't the only one, either. His companions were practically sleep-walking as they crossed the parking lot toward a greasy café.

They were just entering the building when his phone rang. He stopped and glancing at the caller ID (Unknown, of course), he said, "I'll just take this" and let the others go on ahead. "Hello?"

"_What are you doing, John?_"

"I'm getting some breakfast, Mycroft. And you?"

"_Very amusing. I was more interested in what you are doing in the company of Thorn Durin?_"

"Getting breakfast, like I said. I'd invite you to join us, but…"

"_He's a criminal, John._"

"He's a _victim_, Mycroft."

He could hear the man's frustrated exhale miles away down the phone line. "_I can cite any number of illegal acts he's performed in the last decade. He is not a victim._"

"He was framed by Moriarty, who forced him out of his own family's company, stole his land, and ruined his name so nobody would believe him," John told him, pacing in front of the door. "Does that sound at all familiar?"

"_John…_"

"No, Mycroft, I couldn't help Sherlock, but I can help them."

He glanced back into the café, searching for his new friends, over in the corner … except, what…? "Oh, my God," he breathed. "Mycroft, I have to go."

And shoving his phone back in his pocket, he sprinted inside.

#

Frantic, John ran through the restaurant, only now realizing how empty it was. Where was the server he'd seen just a few minutes ago, pouring tea and coffee?

Because he really wanted to get his hands on that waiter, he thought, as he looked at his friends, all slumped unconscious at the table.

He frantically checked Kyle's neck for a pulse, and was relieved to find one, slow though it was. He peered under an eyelid and pressed his ear to his back, trying to hear his breathing, but was defeated by the thick jacket. If only he had his medkit … and then he realized. It was in the van.

He raced around the table to Dale, reaching into his jacket pocket for the keys before pelting out the door. It was only a matter of moments before he was back, opening his bag and thinking fast. No signs of vomit or violence. No bloody discharge from the nose. Whatever this had been had been not only fast, but remarkably symptom-free. Except for the still-slowing heart rate, this could almost be a sedative.

But it wasn't, he thought as he lifted a cup of coffee to his nose to sniff.

He glanced around the restaurant, noting again it's total emptiness. Yes, it was early, but … and where was the server? He needed to find out what his friends had been given before he could _treat them_, damn it!

He dashed back behind the counter, looking into the (empty) kitchen. It was only by luck that he saw the empty bottle in the trash. Deptofol. He pummelled his brain, trying to dredge up what he knew of the poison—derived from spider venom, if he remembered, and one that sent its victims into a dreamless sleep that, if untreated, turned into a coma and then death in a matter of hours.

It didn't make sense, though. Why poison all of them? Especially with something that was so fast-acting it was immediately obvious? Wouldn't it have made more sense for an assassin to use something that would either kill immediately or that would take time but not show symptoms until it was too late to treat?

A puzzle, to be sure, but one which was more academic than he really had time for right now. Deptofol might be treatable, but that didn't mean that he had the antidote handy. His medical kit might be remarkably well-stocked thanks to his time with the army and Sherlock Holmes (two entirely different wars, but both needing medical care), but it wasn't like he could carry a full pharmacy of meds with him at all times. And while Deptofol could be counteracted, it wasn't like its antidote could be bought at any chemist's shop.

He pulled his phone back out of his pocket and stared at it for a moment. There was no question he needed to call someone—he'd rather see Thorn in prison and alive than dead and free. And the man would absolutely want his nephews to be saved.

Still rummaging in his bag, John dialled 999 and explained the situation, just as he found a vial of adrenalin. Finally, something useful, he thought as he disconnected and repocketed the phone. It wouldn't counteract the poison, but it could buy time, giving their taxed symptoms a boost as they tried to fight off the poison. Anything that kept them from reaching the crucial coma stage a little longer would be useful. He could just eke out five doses if he was careful.

He had just given the first injection to Thorn when he heard a creak in the floor and turned to see the missing waiter, standing behind him with a knife.

#

John ducked just in time, spinning away from the knife thrust and grabbing the waiter's arm, dragging him away from the unconscious group around the table.

The waiter, though—and John needed to start thinking of him as an assassin, because the ultra-serious expression on his face was definitely not one that should be working with the public—the _assassin_ allowed himself to be pulled away, but then took advantage of the momentum to pivot around, reaching around John, knife aimed for his throat.

Which was the second time too many in as many days, thought John, as he kicked back, throwing the man off balance as he gripped hard at his wrist, digging his fingers into pressure points to force the man to drop the knife.

Not that that meant the man was done, oh no. Even as he lost his balance from John's kick, his other arm had come around to clasp John's arms at his side as his foot tangled with John's, so they landed in a heap.

What did you tell yourself, John thought as he gasped for breath, about not letting assailants fall on top of you? He didn't allow the distraction, though, as the other man scrambled for the fallen knife. John grabbed at the waiter's belt and bodily hauled him backwards. Lying on the ground as he was, winded from the fall and bad shoulder screaming in complaint, it was almost impossibly hard, but he _would not_ allow the man to get the knife.

This man was a trained fighter, though—and in better practice than John. Also more ruthless, and the struggle that followed was brutal, reminding John all too clearly that he was on the far side of 40 now and that scar tissue really wasn't as resilient as one might hope.

Still, he was the only hope Thorn and the others had, and time was wasting—precious minutes slipping by as the poison worked unstopped in their systems. He'd already lost one friend to Moriarty's games—he wasn't going to lose five new ones.

In other circumstances, he might have been ashamed of the fight that followed—brutal and dirty—but he was desperate. It lasted less than five minutes, but at the end, John was the one getting painfully to his feet. He tied the assassin's hands with the man's belt for the moment—he would tie him more securely once he'd gotten the adrenalin injected in the others. (And, really, where the hell was the ambulance? Shouldn't it be here by now? And did this café have no other customers in the morning? How did they stay in business?)

He paused a moment, leaning on the table and breathing hard, before seeing Thorn's eyes on him. He held up one weary hand. "I've got it, Thorn. Help's on the way."

John reached for his medkit again, prepping another syringe and injecting William, whose colour had worsened in the few minutes he'd been distracted. Seriously, where was the ambulance?

He worked his way around the table, checking vitals and giving each man a shot, and then returned to the unconscious assassin, who was starting to stir. He spared a thought to wish for a pair of Lestrade's handcuffs, which Sherlock had lifted almost as often as he had taken his ID. Was there duct tape back behind the counter, he wondered? As the man moved his legs, though, he decided he didn't have time. He reached up to the table above him and pulled off the tablecloth, ignoring the shattering sounds as the glasses and plates tumbled around him. Using the man's knife, he tore off a long strip which he used to secure his hands, and then another for his feet. After making sure there was nothing sharp the assassin could use to free himself, he decided he could just afford to sit down for a moment.

Barely a moment, as it turned out. John had barely lowered his aching body into one of the plastic chairs when he heard the sirens. The cavalry had arrived.

#

* * *

(Note: I totally made up this poison, its symptoms, and its treatment. Yet again, do not try this at home. This could be the worst possible way to treat any poison—it might just make it work faster, for all I know. Just remember, John is a professional fictional doctor and can perform medical miracles as the story requires. Unless you have the same qualifications, please reserve your own life-saving poison treatments for real, live medical professionals.)


	5. Chapter 5

With remarkable efficiency, the ambulance team swept in, pausing only briefly to take in the aftermath of the battle before hurrying to the table of unconscious men.

Already stiffening from the fight, John gave them the information they needed—the poison, the treatment, how long it had been, what the vital signs were. It was only once his friends were being treated that he pointed the police to the furious assassin, glaring at everyone from the floor.

"And him," John said. "That's the man who poisoned them."

He waited patiently as they blinked, looking back and forth between him and the far-more-intimidating man on the floor. Why did he always get that reaction? "He came after me with a knife, but I wasn't going to let him get away, so … the knife's over there. It'll have some of my fingerprints on it. I used it to cut up one of the tablecloths."

"You … You're saying this man tried to kill you, too?" The police officer's face was frankly disbelieving.

"Apparently he took offence to my trying to save my friends lives after he went to the trouble of poisoning them, yes," John said.

"Where were you during the initial … attack?"

"When they were poisoned, you mean?" John asked, watching the ambulance squad strapping Dale to a gurney. "Outside on the phone. I came inside to find them all unconscious. I found the empty bottle of Deptofol in the kitchen garbage, called 999, ran for my medical bag and was just starting treatment when he attacked me from behind with a knife."

"Wait, your medical bag? Are you a doctor, sir?"

John nodded wearily. "Dr John Watson, yes."

"John Watson?" the officer repeated, voice suddenly flat as his eyes flicked over his face. One of those, then, thought John.

"Yes, flatmate to the late Sherlock Holmes who was decidedly not a fraud but that's not as important right now as the lives of my five friends, now, is it?" John said in one long breath, just daring the officer to mess with him today. (He was never at his best when his friends' lives were at risk. Or, maybe his best in terms of performance, but not at his most patient.)

"Riiiiiight." The officer flicked his eyes back to the waiter on the floor, taking in the detritus of the fight scattered about the room. "Are you unhurt yourself, sir?"

"Except for bruises, yes, I think so," said John as he stood with a wince. "Okay, a lot of bruises. Where are you taking them?"

"Sisters of Mercy is closest," he said, "But we'll need you to make a statement…"

John sighed. "Fine, but let's make this quick, shall we? I'd really like to be there when my friends wake up—assuming they wake up."

"Of course," the officer said, pulling out a clipboard. "Let's just take care of that right now, shall we?"

#

By the time they were done with the paperwork, John was exhausted. He was running on too little sleep, and hadn't even had a chance for breakfast. One of the officers had given him a pastry from the display case, and the sugar boost had helped, but not enough.

He stepped out into the sunlight a little dazed, head buzzing a bit from fatigue and sugar, and counted his blessings that he had Dale's keys in his pocket. Getting directions from one of the constables on scene was easy. Thinking about the hospital canteen, he was shortly on his way.

…Only to find, once he'd arrived, that nobody had been admitted for poisoning in days, much less a group of five people this morning.

"But that's not possible. I was there. I was told that they were being brought here."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have no information for you. How long ago was this? Could you possibly have gotten here before the ambulance?"

"I was there giving my statement for almost an hour," John said, "So no. Is there someone you could call? What other hospitals might they have gone to?"

But she just shook her head. "This is the only emergency room for fifty miles, sir. If they didn't come here, I don't know where they could be."

John just stared, speechless, then he remembered who he had been on the phone with when this started. He thanked the nurse and then pivoted on his heel and marched out the door, pulling out his phone as he went.

"_Twice in one day, John? It's not even my birthday_," Mycroft's voice greeted him.

"Where are they, Mycroft?"

"_Of whom are we speaking, John?_"

"You know full well. Thorn, William, Dale, Phil, and Kyle. My friends who were just poisoned this morning. I want to see them. Now."

"_I'm afraid that's not possible, though I'm told they're responding well to treatment_" Mycroft said in that smooth, implacable voice John hated.

"Then _make_ it possible. This is not optional, Mycroft. I need to see them."

"_John…_" Mycroft sounded almost hesitant.

"Mycroft. This isn't about security or whether they're criminals or if you approve of my being with them as if you had a say on who I spend my time with. I just watched … they were _poisoned_. I need to see for myself that they're okay." He could feel his breath catching in his lungs, as if the air had suddenly grown harsh and jagged. "I can't … I can't watch more friends die. Not … not yet."

There was silence over the phone, and then, _"Very well. I'll text you the address, but, John_?"

"Yes?"

_"That doesn't mean they get to leave with you. This is a hospital visit, not a break-out. I have my own questions for Thorn Durin_."

John wanted to argue. Oh, he so wanted to argue, but that could wait until he was _there_. "I agree for the moment, but this conversation is not closed. You don't get to pick my friends for me, Mycroft."

"_Oh, I don't know. I think I did rather well the first time_," Mycroft said, high-handedly taking credit for John befriending Sherlock in the first place. _"I'll have Anthea send you the address and will make sure you get added to the visitors list. Just … don't make me regret this_."

John didn't respond to that, but just nodded his head. (He was sure a CCTV camera was watching him right now.) All he said was, "I'll be there right away."

#

And he would have been, except for the traffic, which was ungodly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen it so bad—it was just his luck that it happened on a morning when he hadn't eaten and was running on raw nerve endings and stubbornness.

He tried tuning in the radio to see if there was an accident tying things up, but couldn't find anything. This is why he preferred cabs in the city, he thought. At least there you could get out and walk if you needed to. This was insane. It was like every red light was against him…

Oh.

_Oh._

He was going to kill him. What the hell was Mycroft playing at?

He peered over the Fiat in front of him, trying to see if there was a way around this mess—though, if it were caused by Mycroft, the strangled traffic would just come with him. How lovely. His fellow commuters would probably strangle _him_ if they knew he was to blame for this nightmare.

And … what was that up ahead? Was that a detour sign? But that didn't make any sense. It wasn't even funnelling the traffic down a street, but into … a parking lot? He steered into the lot, following the Fiat as it wove down the aisle of cars toward the exit at the other side, then stopped as a worker with an emergency vest held up a hand. Beyond him, John saw more workers placing more sawhorses, and … blocking the exit.

He could feel his jaw drop as he realized he was trapped in this parking lot by a set of road workers.

When had his life gotten so insane?

He considered his options. He was too much of a humanitarian to mow down the man standing in front of him. He was (presumably) just doing what Mycroft told him to do. And while John could take a life when he needed to, he ultimately was a doctor and a good man. It's not like the man was threatening him, after all. Even if he let his foot come down on the accelerator, he would just feel honour-bound to turn around and give medical aid afterward.

He sat and stared for longer than he liked before he realized the worker was directing him, not to an exit, but to a parking spot. Seriously, how was this his life?

Feeling defeated, he pulled in and turned off the van, reaching for his phone in practically the same motion. He didn't think he could handle talking to Sherlock's brother just this minute, not without causing serious damage to his blood pressure, and so he sent a text.

_—Really? Isn't this petty, even for you?_

_—I'd be offended, but I'll make allowances for your low blood sugar. You need to eat, John. MH_

_—I know the difference between rage and light-headedness. This is NOT funny, Mycroft._

_—I never said it was. You've had a long morning which included a fight with an assassin and you haven't eaten. I'm just suggesting you address that. MH_

John only now realized he was parked in front of a restaurant.

He shook his head, uncertain whether to laugh or rant some more. This high-handedness was _not_ acceptable—especially when his friends had almost DIED this morning, but there was a (tiny, very tiny) part of him that couldn't help but admit that he was touched that Mycroft considered him worth looking after. Not that he needed looking after. He wasn't Sherlock, after all. He did know enough to stop to eat—and if Mycroft hadn't hijacked his friends' ambulances so that they'd been where John expected them, he would have eaten at the hospital hours ago.

He said as much in his next text, and couldn't help a reluctant smile when Mycroft replied,

_—The food here is much better. We wouldn't want you to pass out and have an accident. MH_

_—At the speed I've been driving, it's not really a concern. The traffic had better clear up when I've eaten, Mycroft._

_—Surely that's in the hands of the gods? Enjoy your brunch. MH_

_—On my budget, it won't take long._

Grumbling to himself as he shoved his phone back in his pocket, John climbed out of the van.

He had barely stepped foot on the pavement and was just stretching out his too-stiff back (yes, a lot of bruises), when his phone chimed. He pulled it out to look and this time gave a real smile as he read the alert from his bank that £50 had just been direct-deposited into his account with a note, "Bon Appetit."

Trust Mycroft to get the last word.

#

Trying not to think about how badly eating in a roadside restaurant had gone for him the last couple days, John waited for a table.

If he was honest with himself, he could admit that the chance to sit still for a while, to get something to eat, sounded appealing. The bruises he'd collected earlier had only stiffened while he drove, and the slight buzz in his ears did not bode well for safe driving. Or staying on his feet.

Still, this level of interference in his daily life was notacceptable. He wasn't even sure why Mycroft was bothering. It's not like they had had anything to do with each other since Sherlock died. They weren't getting together for tea. Mycroft hadn't kidnapped him to any warehouses or dragged him (however politely) to the Diogenes Club. So … why now?

Not that he was surprised to learn that Mycroft was keeping an eye on him. He had the feeling that, once you were on Mycroft Holmes's radar, you stayed there. John had saved Sherlock's life more than once, so he supposed the man was grateful—and as proved by his current trip, Moriarty's criminal activities hadn't ended with his death. It was always possible John could be in danger from the remnants, so … Mycroft watched. Fine. He had gotten used to the almost-creepy level of surveillance while Sherlock was alive. He could deal with this … so long as it didn't interfere.

In other words, when Mycroft wasn't doing what he was doing right now.

Forcing him to stop to eat? Preventing him from seeing his friends _who had nearly died_? Even after John had told him how badly he needed to see them? (Not to mention hijacking them to whatever highly-secure hospital Mycroft had dragged them to.)

He was reasonably sure it was because of Mycroft they'd needed to leave the Rivendell this morning. (Christ, was that only_ this morning_? Surely that had been at least a week ago, going by how tired he was.) William had mentioned they were leaving in order to keep John with them … Christ. Mycroft hadn't sent the poisoner, had he?

No, he told himself. You're just being ridiculous. Just because he's meddling in your life to an excruciating degree, he wouldn't kill five relatively-innocent people just to keep you from seeing them. He was controlling, but not mentally ill or psychopathic. He might control them, but he wouldn't harm them … not unless they actually harmed John.

John wondered what it said about him that this didn't worry him more.

But, no, Mycroft wouldn't have sent an assassin after them. The fact that John had gotten a call from him at just the right time to keep him from being poisoned as well was purely coincidental. Of course it was.

God, how was this his life?

The point, though, was that he was determined to get around him. How could he get out of this restaurant and to the hospital without Mycroft controlling him every inch of the way?

He had placed his order and was sipping at a cup of tea, pondering this very thing when his phone rang.

He glanced at the caller ID and felt his face break into a smile. Perfect.

#

* * *

(Note: Yes, it's possible I got a little carried away there, but Mycroft and I were having fun. … Okay, we were having a LOT of fun. I sort of loved writing this chapter. And John really DID need a break to eat. Things are going to get busy soon. We can't have the poor fellow passing out from low blood sugar, can we?)


	6. Chapter 6

John grabbed the phone. "Watson here."

"_What happened? Where are you?_"

"Well, that's a long story," he said. "The short version is that we ran into a bit of trouble. You should probably know that my travelling companions are in hospital."

"_What? What happened? Are you with them?_"

"I'm trying, but I keep running into … obstacles."

A pause from the other end, then, "_1984, Orwellian obstacles?_"

John gave a small smile. You couldn't say that Grey was slow up on the uptake. "Exactly. It's because of his thoughtfulness that I've stopped for a bite to eat. He tells me that they're responding well to treatment, though."

"_What happened?_" Grey asked again.

"They were poisoned at breakfast this morning, though I'm still unsure how. I mean, we caught the poisoner, so we know the how, but … who knew we'd be there?"

Silence at the other end, and then, "_John, if you're implying…_"

"No, no," he said hastily. "Even if I suspected you, you couldn't have known where we stopped to eat. I don't see how anyone could, but it certainly didn't seem like it was random."

"_Big brother?_" Grey's voice was tentative.

John shook his head as he answered. "No. Kidnapping them to a highly-secure hospital—which he did—is one thing, but I can't imagine him actually poisoning them to put them there in the first place. Not all five of them. Not _poison_." He thought a moment. "That's twice now, though…"

"_Twice what?_"

"That we've been found and attacked at seemingly random locations," John said. "I wonder if the van has picked up any bugs?"

"_I happen to know someone who has excellent skills with insects of all sorts … Where did you say you were?_"

"I didn't," John said, thinking hard. Clearly Mycroft didn't need a tracker to follow him (though he chose not to think about whether there was one in his phone), but maybe someone else was? Following Thorn and the others in an effort to keep them from interfering? Though that wouldn't explain why it was John grabbed at the rest stop yesterday.

Still, since Mycroft had brought him here, it wasn't like he didn't know John's location. And the odds of an unknown menace listening in on his phone calls was unlikely … wasn't it?

Sheesh, he was getting paranoid, he thought, even if it was justified after the day he'd had.

"I'm in Greenleaf," he told Grey after a minute.

"_Perfect. My friend lives not far from there. Here's what we can do…_"

#

After John had finished his meal (which really had been excellent), he walked out to the van with some trepidation. Would it still have its tires? Its spark plugs? Would its engine have mysteriously disappeared?

But no, it looked fine, and when John tried the starter, the engine turned over.

Well, that was something, he thought, but the idea of tracking bugs hiding somewhere on board still bothered him. He just hoped that Mycroft's road-work goons would let him deviate from Mycroft's expected route without throwing more obstacles in his way.

As planned, he drove for a few minutes and then tugged at the gear shift, making the van lurch before pulling over. He climbed out of the driver's seat with a disgusted look on his face and, giving a general glare up and down the road just managed not to kick the tires.

What he did do was pull out his phone, pulling up a search for car repair and scrolling until he found the name Grey had given him. With another glare at the nearest CCTV camera, looking for all the world (he hoped) like he blamed Mycroft for this, he placed the call and asked for a tow. He just hoped that Mycroft didn't thoughtfully send any of his men to make the unnecessary repairs for the non-existent problem. He hoped that Mycroft would be too happy at yet another delay (one he hadn't caused) to be overly helpful.

To his relief, their plan went smoothly. He was sure Mycroft was tracking him via CCTV (or possibly a team of secret agents in black sedans with cloaking technology), but now that he was heading away from the hospital, the traffic was magically clear, and in no time at all, the tow truck had arrived.

He put on a show of being frustrated and resigned about his van's supposed indisposition, but otherwise didn't talk much with the large man hooking up the van to the back of the truck. He pulled out his phone, wondering if he should text bitter accusations to Mycroft, but finally just shook his head at it as if he couldn't find the words before shoving it back into his pocket.

All in all, it was a relief when they pulled into Bjorn's Auto Body.

The door to the car bay was unusually thick, he noticed, and the radio dissolved into static the minute it closed behind them. "You can talk freely now, Dr Watson," Bjorn told him, hopping down from the driver's seat. "The entire garage is shielded for spying devices."

John felt his eyebrows lifting as he looked around at the electronics scattered on the workbench and smiled at the uncharacteristic display of honey jars in the corner. "Is that a common problem for you?"

"Well, let's just say that there are some things I like to keep to myself, as do many of my clients."

John nodded, hoping he wasn't going to get this huge bear of a man in trouble by bringing him to Mycroft's attention. "Right. I think my van has a tracker or a bug of some kind."

Bjorn nodded. "And Grey said you needed a diversion?"

"If possible. If not, just getting making sure the van is bug free would be a help."

"No problem. Grey said you're a popular man, with two parties interested in you?"

John sighed. "Yeah. One's nosy and overbearing but relatively benign in a Big Brother kind of way. The other … not so much. My friends and I have been attacked twice in the last 24 hours and I need to get them out of the hospital."

"So … if Big Brother George placed the tracker … you're okay with that?"

"George?"

"Orwell," Bjorn said.

John smiled. And they said people didn't read the classics anymore. "Frankly, I'd be surprised if … George … had to track my van. If anything, I'd suspect him to have inserted something into my phone ages ago. I frankly gave up trying to keep up and decided it was easier to let it slide than spend my life in a constant state of paranoia. It's whoever is tracking and attacking my friends that I'm worried about."

Bjorn reached for some electronic gizmo scanner thing behind the counter and just said, "Phone?" before running the wand over John's mobile. "Nothing more than the regular GPS," he said after a minute. "But without checking, I can't speak for the software. It might be broadcasting more than you think."

John gave a resigned nod. "Probably. Will being in here cause questions? I don't want to draw the wrong kind of attention to your … operation."

The other man gave an approving nod. "The standard line is that all the metal and parts interfere with mobile coverage. You'll just need to go outside to make any calls." He turned to give the van an appraising look. "This shouldn't take too long, but if you want to go across to the bakery across the street for a snack…"

"I'll get you something," John said.

"Thanks, Doc. Just remember—if you've been attacked and you're being tracked … keep your eyes open."

"Will do."

#

Even with his recent meal, John couldn't resist the pastries at Bombast Bakery, and a few minutes later was queuing with several other people, mouth watering. It was an interesting place, he thought as he looked around, connected to Boffin's Toys next door—and that was a change from the usual bakery/bookstore combination. He couldn't keep his eyes from drifting toward the display of what looked to be hand-carved toys, wishing he had a nephew he could use as an excuse to buy some.

He shifted his attention back toward the weedy man fidgeting in front of him. He seemed incapable of standing still, with a nervous habit of swallowing loudly and running his hands over his balding head.

As the queue moved forward, the baker behind the counter finished with his customer and then looked down at the small man with a look of barely-managed patience. "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam blinked at him, eyes wide. "Golly, there's no need to be so unfriendly. I just wanted to make you an offer in exchange for some of your lovely baked goods."

"We've had this conversation. I don't make trades, and I have no use for your…"

"A riddle! Everybody loves riddles! Don't you?" he asked, turning to John. "Love riddles?"

"Er … sure. I guess. When I was a kid," John said.

"See? Think how useful! And amusing! I'll give you five riddles for one of your pastry rings. I love them."

The baker shook his head. "No, Sam. I'm sorry. I've told you time and again, it's cash or nothing."

"How about fish? I have some wonderful fish!" Sam exclaimed, opening the basket on his hip, releasing a stench of rotting fish into the room.

As all his customers made disgusted noises, the baker looked furious. "That's it. Get out! Take your rotten fish and get OUT! This is a bakery, we don't do seafood. OUT!"

"Golly," Sam said, swallowing hard. "You don't have to be so mean about it." And, muttering to himself, he sadly took his way out the the door, shoulders hunched, feet dragging. If John hadn't been standing so close to the basket when he'd opened it, he would have almost felt sorry for the guy.

The baker had a can of air freshener in his hand and was spraying it into the room so vigorously, John had to cover his mouth to keep from coughing. Trying to remember how good the pastries had smelled before all of this, he stepped up to the counter.

"Sorry about that," the baker said. "He comes in here all the time, trying to get me to give him free food."

"Nothing you can do about it," John said with a bit of a shrug. "Pity about the fish, though."

"Amen to that. I can usually get him out of here before he goes that far, but…" He gestured with the scented spray. "I try to be prepared. So, how can I help you?"

A few minutes later, pink, string-wrapped box in hand, John stepped outside the shop, thankfully breathing the fresh air. He supposed the dead fish had smelled worse than the air freshener, but … God, that stuff was worse than almost any of Sherlock's experiments. He was just glad he'd had a chance to enjoy the warm, sugary, bakery smell when he'd first walked in.

He glanced at the toy store next door, but no. He had things to do today. Still … he took a step toward its entrance and stopped, something crunching under foot. He looked down and saw a gold-coloured ring, ground into the dirt.

Looking around, he didn't see anybody who could have lost it. He bent to pick it up, only then realizing it was heavier than it looked, yet it wasn't metal … or plastic … he wasn't sure what it was. Probably a toy from the shop, he thought, sliding it on his finger as he walked back across to Bjorn's shop.

He let himself in the door, carefully balancing the box in one hand as he entered. "Hello?"

"Doc?" Bjorn's head popped around the side of the van in surprise as he turned to look at the electric panel on the wall. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Well, I walked this time," John said, joking. "That tends to be quieter than driving."

"No, man, I'm saying I didn't _hear _you. Like, you didn't even register." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you go?"

"Just to the bakery," John said, holding up his box. "I know, it took a while, but there was this man with … fish." He couldn't help making a face as he remembered the smell.

Bjorn was nodding. "Yeah, Glad Golly Gee Sam. I know exactly who you mean. He tries to sell me fish all the time, even though I'm a vegetarian. But—you registered on the system before, and now you don't … you didn't go anywhere else? Pick anything up?"

"I thought about going into the toy shop, but no," he said, then remembered. "Oh, but I did pick something up off the pavement. It's just a toy, but I was curious." He pulled the ring from his finger and held it out.

Bjorn picked it up and, if anything, his face grew more serious as he looked at it. "This is … this … I don't even know," he murmured.

"I know," said John. "I couldn't figure out what it was, either. Definitely not gold, though, so I doubt anybody's looking for it."

The mechanic was reaching for his scanner. "I don't know about that, Doc. This is … interesting." John watched as he ran the scanner wand around the ring and then peered at it through a magnifying glass. "Look here."

Obediently, John leaned over and looked, seeing the faint trace marks along the sides of the ring. "Is that an inscription?"

"No," said Bjorn, looking all the more intrigued. "That's _circuitry_. I've never seen anything so fine. It's not even wire … more like those fiber-optic filaments, but embedded into the ring … I've never seen anything like it."

John just nodded. He probably just didn't know enough to appreciate it, but Bjorn looked totally blown away. "Might as well be magic for all I'm concerned," he said finally. "But why are you so interested?"

"Because, somehow, while you were wearing it, you didn't show up on my alarm scanners—I'm talking about the real ones, not just the ordinary ones I have for show for the mundanes." He glanced at the wall panel again. "Here, put it on again."

John did, a tiny glimmer of a preliminary itch of a plan tickling in the back of his head, starting to crystalize at Bjorn's soft "ah" as he watched the scanners.

They experimented then, and somehow, John had picked up a ring that worked much like a cloaking device. They determined that, while wearing the ring (which apparently connected somehow to the electric impulses in his skin, like his phone's touch screen only several thousand times more advanced), he would not be detected by any regular electronic scanners. Not even body heat ones. John couldn't begin to understand why—he'd said up front that he didn't know about security systems, but with this little trinket, the possibility of getting past Smog seemed a whole lot more likely.

He could tell that Bjorn was just itching to take the thing apart to study, but John had his fist clenched around it as he thought about his friends, trapped behind Mycroft's security, of their future, blocked by Smog's threat.

If he was lucky, this one ring could make a difference.

#

* * *

(Note: Do I need to mention that the effects of the Ring are completely fabricated and—so far as I know—entirely impossible in the real world? But this is fiction, and not only that, fiction trying to mimic Tolkien's world and well, high-tech gadgets are about as close as we can come to magic in the 21st century, so … again … just squint a little and go with it. And, no, I was NOT going to get into a riddle game with Gollum, thank you very much. Apologies if you were hoping for one, but … just, no. It's also possible that I'm suddenly having way too much fun with author's notes.)


	7. Chapter 7

With the van cleared of its tracking device ("Amateur hour," Bjorn had sniffed upon finding it), they were ready to move on to the hospital.

John could admit he was a little nervous about this part. He hadn't ridden a motorcycle in years, but it was the only way he was going to have a chance to get to the hospital without Mycroft knowing. Bjorn was going to take the van out the front while John took the bike out the back. They figured Mycroft's CCTV (and possible covert spies) would follow the van, but wouldn't know about the bike.

With the Ring (John was already thinking of it with fond capitalization), John was hoping to get inside and to somehow get past the security to get his friends out without Mycroft knowing—at least not until they were out. He just hoped they would all be easy to find—and that Mycroft hadn't spent all this extra time abusing them for information.

John tried not to think that the main reason Mycroft would need to delay his own arrival would be for time for interrogation.

Assuming Thorn and the others were, in fact, where Mycroft said they were.

But he wouldn't have lied about that, would he?

John forced the worries out of his mind and turned back to Bjorn. "See you there, then?"

The other man nodded his shaggy head and then surprised John by reaching out to give him a hug. "You just be careful. Remember, that ring won't hide you from people seeing you—it just masks your digital signature."

"I know," John said, trying to breathe through the biggest bear hug he'd had in years. "Luckily, I'm good at stealth. It's the electronic stuff I need help with."

He staggered a bit when Bjorn clapped him on the shoulder, but met his warm look with a smile of his own, accepting the jar of the man's own honey with gratitude. One thing you could say about this trip—he was definitely making new friends.

It wasn't long before he was rocketing along on some small, gravel road, very forcibly reminded exactly why he hadn't been on a motorbike since his twenties. That was okay, though. He didn't think it was possible Mycroft could have CCTV cameras out here, and he hadn't seen anyone following him. If he was lucky, this would go to plan, and all he had to worry about was getting his friends out of the hospital. The high-security hospital that Mycroft Holmes had put them in. Where they could possibly be unconscious or ill or in no condition to stage a break-out.

But no, he wasn't going to think about that. He would find them and get them out. Once they were out the door and in the van, well, John was a doctor. He could take care of them. From what he remembered of Deptofol, the aftereffects weren't too debilitating (assuming you'd received the antidote and weren't actually, well, dead). One plus side of these annoying delays was that his friends had hopefully used the time to recuperate and were all raring to go.

It was only fifteen minutes later that he pulled up at the back of the Greenleaf Hospital. Putting on a brimmed hat, he waited for a group returning from a late lunch before easing in behind them.

He cut off down a different hallway until he found an empty room. Picking up the phone, he dialled reception. "I'm sorry," he started. "I have flowers for William Fundinson, but someone, and I'm not saying it was the idiot who sits next to me, but someone managed to spill tea on the paperwork and I can't read the room number. Can you…? Thanks."

Okay, he had the room number for one of them. Hopefully, the other four would be nearby—in the same ward if he was really lucky.

It helped that he had so much experience with hospitals. It only took him a moment to find the laundry. He found a doctor's coat instead of scrubs, since he didn't want to leave his own clothes behind, grabbed a clipboard, and then put on his own, unassuming, confident doctor's face and headed for the stairs.

Nobody stopped him, and none of the doors he went through set off alarms. He looked down at his ring with affection. This would have come in handy so many times with Sherlock. If he could have married a piece of technology, this would be it, so how convenient that it looked like a wedding ring? (Though he'd still sell his soul for a time-travel machine, he thought wistfully.)

Reaching the fourth floor, he strode confidently down the hall, heading for 419, keeping a close eye out for familiar faces or surveillance cameras. (His Ring might mask him from security systems, but he was pretty sure he'd still show up on cameras. The thing wasn't magic, after all.)

John wasn't sure if it was good luck or bad that he found all his friends in one ward … because there was a guard right outside. Still … nothing ventured… He peered into the room from his position down the hall and saw that they were all alert and talking—and looking extremely unhappy. He couldn't see if they were restrained, but assumed that yes, they were. He just hoped it was with standard hospital cuffs, and not something more serious like handcuffs.

He started to walk down the hallway, peering at the numbers, glancing down at his clipboard every few seconds. Intent on what he was doing, he almost collided with the guard. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "It's my first day and I'm afraid I got a bit lost. This … this is 419, isn't it? William Fundinson?"

He saw the heads inside turn his way, but he ignored them, concentrating on the guard, who said, "This is a secure ward, doctor. Just keep moving."

John nodded. "Yes, but I should be on the list. Dr John Watson? Mr Holmes knows I was coming to visit."

If possible, the guard just planted his feet that much more firmly. "That doesn't mean you have clearance, doctor."

"You're not even going to check?" John asked with disbelief.

"No, sir. I would have been told if anyone was on the visitors list, and I was not, which means you are not."

"Really." John said, voice flat as he pulled out his mobile. He dialled and then said, "Mycroft? Why won't Agent…" he waited for the name to be supplied "…Phelps let me in to see my friends? I thought we had a deal."

"_You're … of course we do, John, but … where are you, exactly?_" John had never heard Mycroft sound so surprised.

"I'm standing in the hallway outside their room," John said. "I'm waving to them right now—I certainly hope that, when you said I could see them, this wasn't what you meant."

"_Er … no, of course not. Hand the phone over to Phelps_."

John looked up at the guard. "He wants to talk to you."

He waited patiently, trying not to look amused as the guard's face blanched, followed by a series of yes-sirs, and then calmly accepted his phone back. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"_But, John… how did you get into the hospital?_"

"You told me I could visit after I ate, remember? It's not to say that the road blocks and traffic lights and car trouble weren't all very amusing, but it's not like you didn't know I was coming. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really do want to see my friends before Agent Phelps here manages to glare a hole through my forehead."

He hung up the phone and took a step forward, lifting an eyebrow and waiting for the man to step aside.

It only took about 30 seconds of John's steady, patient not-quite-a-glare before the man yielded. (And, really, John thought, he already knew Mycroft had given his orders. What had the man hoped to gain by dragging this out longer? John had had far better men than he try to intimidate him in the past. This was, in Bjorn's phrase, amateur hour.)

When the guard finally moved aside, John walked into the room and shut the door behind him. "You're all looking so much better than the last time I saw you," he said, unable to keep the relief from his voice. It didn't matter how many reassurances he'd been given; seeing was believing.

There was a chorus of "John!" and "Doctor Watson!" and John couldn't help the smile at the welcome. It was immediately replaced by a bombard of questions. "What are you doing here?" "What happened?" "Do you know what happened to the waiter?" "How did you save us?" "Can you get us out of here?" "What took you so long?"

John nodded at Thorn at that last one. "That's a very good question. I've spent the day trying to get here and believe me, it has not been easy. It appears that Mycroft Holmes questions my association with you fine gentlemen and has thrown up roadblock after roadblock all day … quite literally. Do you know, he managed to turn every single traffic light between the café and this hospital red? And even detoured me into a restaurant parking lot and then cut off the exits, just to make sure I ate? I can't decide if this level of concern is flattering or terrifying, but … what else is new? I'm here now, and the question is how long do they plan on keeping you for?"

"Too long, I'm afraid, doctor," said William. "It appears that the government wishes to make the stay a long one."

"It's illegal being poisoned these days?"

"For things we've done in the decade since Moriarty took our land," came Thorn's voice, rumbling across the room. "Things I've done. Since we woke up here, we have been questioned several times."

"Really," said John, feeling the flat weight of it on his tongue. "That would explain the delaying tactics—I just thought he was being difficult."

He wearily pulled over a chair and sat down, feeling every one of his bruises. It must have showed in his body language, because Kyle asked if he was all right. John nodded, not wanting to worry him. "Just tired and stiff."

"And battered," said Thorn, eyes intent. "You fought for us this morning."

John had forgotten that Thorn had been semi-conscious at that point. "Yes, well … I wasn't going to let you be poisoned and do nothing about it, was I?"

"Many would," was all he said.

"Yeah, well, not me. So, tell me. How are you all feeling? Any after-effects I need to know about? Weakness? Nausea?" He eyed the beds, noting the wrist restraints. "That can't be very comfortable."

"It could be worse." Dale's eyes shifted behind him and John gave a tiny nod, acknowledging the guard he knew was watching.

"Which brings us to the question of how we're going to get you out of here."

"I did tell you they couldn't leave with you, John." Mycroft's voice sounded calm behind him. Maybe Dale hadn't been looking at the guard after all.

"I'm surprised you're this far out of London, Mycroft," John said turning in his chair.

"It does happen from time to time, and it gave me the opportunity to meet your new friends."

"Friends who are restrained to their beds?"

"It seemed kindest," said Mycroft.

"You and your brother really have no conception of what that word really means, do you?" John asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Have you been here this whole time?"

"Well, not quite, but long enough to have several interesting conversations."

John stood and turned to face him, like a soldier should. "Then there's no reason they can't leave with me. They've done nothing wrong."

"Not today perhaps…"

"No, Mycroft. I told you, they were victims of Moriarty, just like Sherlock was. They were _poisoned_ this morning. They deserve our help."

Mycroft's lips tightened and he gripped his umbrella tighter before walking back into the hall, John following. "How did you get in here, John?"

"Didn't we have this conversation already? You talked to Phelps and he let me in."

"No, John. In the hospital. How did you get past the security?"

John just blinked, keeping his face neutral, reminded somehow of their first meeting. Mycroft could lean all he wanted, but John could stonewall with the best. "I walked."

"John."

He looked at the older man, noting the strain around the eyes. He hadn't seen him since Sherlock's funeral, but found himself surprised to see clear signs of stress on Mycroft Holmes. Even without meaning to, he found it softened his response. "They need help, Mycroft. Why are you so set against me helping?"

There was silence for a moment, then, "You're heading into a situation that could get you killed, John. You really think they deserve that kind of risk? You've only just met them."

"I do. I'm not saying they're perfect, but … Thorn had his life stolen from him, just like Moriarty did to Sherlock. The difference is that Thorn is still alive, and I can do something to help him. After I let Sherlock down …I need to do this."

Something flickered in Mycroft's eyes. "You never let Sherlock down, John."

John just huffed out a laugh. "He's dead, Mycroft. There's nothing about that that means success."

Mycroft pursed his lips, clearly thinking hard. "Tell me how you gained access to the hospital without my security people knowing."

Instead of answering, John asked, "Doesn't that prove I can help them get into Erebor's office to get the files they need? If you're worried about me being in danger, that should reassure you."

"I know you well enough to know you're not a computer expert, John. I have a hard time believing you've developed such high-level hacking skills since my brother's death."

John couldn't help a smile. "That would have surprised us all, I think, but no. Let's just say I picked up something that helps and leave it at that for now?"

The other man's eyes narrowed. "Is this something that Thorn gave you?"

"No," John said firmly. "He doesn't know anything about it."

"That garage, then? I assume you slipped out the back somehow?"

John nodded, smile even broader. "On a motorcycle, nonetheless. Not something I'm eager to do again any time soon. But, no. Bjorn had nothing to do with this either—though he did find a tracker in the van that I'm assuming made it possible to track Thorn's group for both attacks."

"_Both_ attacks?" Mycroft sounded legitimately surprised. Did that mean he hadn't been behind the attempted kidnapping at Trollshaws? John gave a quick explanation and tried not to feel flattered at the anger he saw flit across the other man's face. Sometimes it almost felt like being part of a family. A really stifling, high-handed, exasperating family. (Because, really, how had he been adopted into the Holmes family without realizing it?)

"So, I was right, then," John said after a moment to give Mycroft a chance to lower his blood pressure. "Yesterday's attack wasn't you. Did you have anything to do with Al Rond, though? We had to leave the Rivendell awfully early this morning."

Mycroft made a small moue and said, "It's possible I queried him as to what you were doing there."

"But why, Mycroft? I mean, I get that you're concerned," John said (generously, he thought), "But why couldn't you have just asked me? If you were worried I was in danger or putting myself at risk, why didn't you contact me _first_?"

Mycroft sighed. "You get so testy, John, when I 'interfere.' I thought it was best to work in the background."

He just shook his head, trying to find a tactful way to say this in the face of the look almost of vulnerability on Mycroft's face. "This is what Sherlock hated about you, Mycroft. He didn't hate you, not ever that I saw, but your persistence in assuming he couldn't manage his own life … a belief that seems have carried over onto mine. You don't have to be quite so … hands on."

"What you don't understand, John, is that Moriarty's men are still out there. You are at risk…"

"So what else is new? I've lived my whole life, putting myself at risk—but I do it to help people. People like Thorn and the others. They need my help, and I can't hide in 221B until you deem it safe. "

Mycroft sighed again, twisting his umbrella in a nervous habit all the more touching because he had so few of them. "The security, John? I really do need to know."

John could well believe that. If he had casually strolled past Mycroft's security unnoticed, it must be driving the man insane. "You don't believe I didn't learn anything from Sherlock?"

Now Mycroft smirked. "His preferred method was to lift one of my passes, and I don't believe you've skills as a pickpocket."

"Well, that's true," John admitted. "Tell you what—I will tell you, Mycroft … but not until after. I need it to help Thorn and the others, and I amgoing to help them. Please don't stop me. I need to do this."

He met Mycroft's eyes, trying to let the man read his need, his determination. John may have agreed to help Thorn almost on a whim, but he was committed now.

Finally, Mycroft nodded, glancing toward Phelps, blocking the door. "I trust that your secret is more than simple luck? Because bypassing my security is no light matter, John. If you were anyone else…"

John licked his lips. "I know, and I do in fact agree you need to know about this … but not today. Right now, I need it to break into Erebor and get past Smog. After that? Once we're done and Thorn and the others are safe and cleared? I will pass this it on for you and your scientists. But not until I'm done with it."

"Fine," Mycroft said after a long (endless) moment of calculation and risk-weighing. "I believe it's time for Mr Phelps to take his break. You have fifteen minutes. Make the most of them. And, John? You will be careful, won't you?"

John couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. He didn't think he'd ever felt so … fond … of Mycroft Holmes. "I will. And thank you. I do believe this puts the worst behind us."

#

* * *

(Note: You would think he—and everyone on the planet—would know better than to say anything remotely like "it can't get worse," because doesn't everyone knows that's just tempting fate? And yes, for those keeping score, Mycroft sort of kind of mostly fits the role of Thranduil here, though not exactly. But then, this is an interpretation of the Hobbit, not an exact replica, so scenes and events have been switched, changed, resequenced and utterly transmogrified to fit this new, modern story. Things left out; things added in. And, anyway, it's not like you can escape a hospital in barrels. Next up? John beards the dragon in its den. So to speak.)


	8. Chapter 8

After facing down Mycroft, the escape from the hospital was remarkably easy.

With Phelps no longer guarding the door, John was able to walk right in to remove the restraints from his friends, and then start pulling out personal effects from the closet (taking a moment to be grateful they were in the same room). "We've got 15 minutes to get out of the building," he told them.

He turned back to find them all staring at him, suspicion darkening their faces. "I'll explain later, but first we need to get _out_. For now, just accept that I have something Mycroft Holmes wants and getting to Erebor to clear your name is part of my deal. Come on. There's no time to waste."

There wasn't, either. They hadn't had to resort to Kyle's suggestion of hiding in laundry carts, but they were in the last 60 seconds of the grace period when they exited the building to climb into the van that Bjorn had left for them. John climbed into the driver's seat and started it up, chuckling at the bag of bread and honey on the floor. He handed it back to the others as he turned down River Road. "Help yourselves, courtesy of the man who removed the tracking device from your van."

"Tracking device?"

"In my van?"

"What the hell does Mycroft Holmes think he's doing?"

"No," said John. "That wasn't Mycroft. I mean, don't get me wrong—he's been tracking us, it's just that any tracking he's done is courtesy of the CCTV cameras. The tracking device that was attached to the van was what led the poisoner to us this morning—and those thugs yesterday. After my unscheduled stop for brunch earlier, I brought the van to a friend of Grey's who swept it for bugs—and who happens to have a passion for honey. He was invaluable. I borrowed his motorcycle and rode here the back way while he drove the van to throw off Mycroft."

"Hmm." The bass rumble could only have been Thorn. "Tell us about the deal you've made with the devil, doctor."

John looked up, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. "He's not the devil, Thorn. That would be Moriarty. Mycroft just … well … he might not exactly be a friend, but he's definitely not an enemy either. Apparently he needed to talk to you himself to judge whether you were a danger—and believe me, he's not getting off a very serious talk about trying to screen my friends. He promised Sherlock he'd look after me, though, and he takes that very seriously. I convinced him you needed help and that I was going to do everything I could to see you got it."

The silence from the back was still sceptical. "Trust me," he told them. "You're better off with Mycroft on your side than working against you. As long as this goes smoothly, everything should be fine."

He heard a snort, then Kyle said, "Right, because things going smoothly hasn't been a problem this trip at all."

"What did you have to do to get him to let us just walk out, doctor?

"I told him I'd let him know how I got past his security—but not until _after _we get your file and you're cleared."

William spoke up. "That's a good question, John. How did you?"

John just shrugged. "I picked up a … scrambler, I suppose you could call it. One that interferes with the electronic sensors so that—electronically, at least—I'm more or less invisible. It seemed like something that would come in handy at the Erebor office … and getting past Mycroft's security? Well, that not only made a good test for it, but it felt good, too." He looked back through the mirror at the five of them. "So, how are you all feeling? You're okay? They treated you well? No lingering after-effects?"

There was a general mumbling but the tone was positive, so John just nodded. "Good, then. Look, you can all nap if you need to. Fatigue is one of the after-effects of Deptafol, and we've got a ways to go. It's been a long day."

"For you too, John," said Phil.

"Yeah, but I wasn't poisoned this morning."

"No, but you had a fierce fight with the assassin," said Thorn. "Are you unhurt, doctor?"

John met the man's eyes in the mirror again. "How many times do I have to tell you to call me John? And, no. Not hurt other than some bruises. I'm stiff but well enough. It's only a couple hours away. I'm fine."

#

And he was … for a while, but then the aches and fatigues of the day caught up with him. He looked back at the five of them, all snoring a virtual symphony of snores and smiled. Yep. Just like the army again, except he wasn't usually the one driving the transports.

He saw the sign for Laketown up ahead and, considering, followed the main road to Erebor's offices. He didn't know if Thorn had a specific destination in mind, and he hated waking them all up to ask—and anyway, he was curious. Maybe he could take a quick look around before the others woke?

But no, that would be stupid—they would never trust him if they woke up to find themselves abandoned in the van. No, the smart thing to do would be to stop for supper somewhere, and then come back after dark.

Except … he did want to take a look, even just to see the outside. He was too much a soldier not to want to do reconnaissance.

He pulled over on the road just past the gate, thinking.

"Doctor? Is something wrong?"

John turned, suppressing a wince as his bruises complained. "We're just outside the Erebor offices," he said. "I've never seen them before and just wanted to take a look."

"A look?"

What was it, John thought, that made everything Thorn said to him sound like a criticism? He just nodded, though. "Yeah. I don't want to try going inside or anything, I just wanted to see what it looked like—basic recon."

He could feel Thorn's eyes studying him, but he just waited patiently, thinking how tired he was, wondering if he would be able to get a full night's sleep tonight, thinking how long it was since he'd eaten, but almost hesitant to enter another restaurant with this group. It never seemed to work out for them.

"All right."

He blinked. "What?"

"If you feel you need to take a look, go ahead—just don't let yourself be seen or they'll raise their defences and we'll never get in."

"Just a look from outside is all I want, and there's plenty of cover. I'll be careful." John gave a brisk nod, and let himself out of the van, moving more clumsily than he liked until his muscles warmed up.

Turning the volume off on his phone and making sure the Ring was on his finger, he edged past the security gate, and took stock of the building up ahead.

It was big. Huge, even, and he thought it was obvious that he was going to need help once he was inside. There was no way he would be able to find his way around this veritable mountain of offices alone. He stood in the shadows for a minute, watching for guards patrolling, and then skirted his way south, planning to circle the building, keeping close watch all the while.

It was going just fine, too, until he heard one of the guards complaining about a weird blip in the system about ten minutes before. Great, he thought. That would have been me.

But it was the voice that answered him that floored him. He would have known that baritone anywhere—even if it was coming from the grave it was supposedly interred in. "It was probably nothing, but let me know if it happens again."

"Yessir, Mr Smog."

The familiar voice was laced with contempt as it said, "It's a title, Martin, not my name."

John watched the tall man stood for a moment, obviously considering … and then he jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket, causing the man's head to whip around in his direction. Then he strode in John's direction and, even though the hair was too short and silhouette was unfamiliar … oh, he knew that walk. He knew the ground those legs could cover, working almost as quickly as the mind that controlled them. He knew the face as it came into view, too, even if the cheeks were rounder, less sculpted than he expected.

He knew this man. Or, he thought he had. Because Sherlock Holmes was dead and this man walking across the pavement clearly was not.

Not only that, the other guard had called him Smog.

It simply wasn't possible, was it?

But still, the shock of it was a blow and all he could do was clutch at his near-silent phone and stare, unable to move his feet until the man in front of him spoke.

"John?"

And his long day didn't just catch up to him, it overtook him and pounced, knocking him off his feet, head reeling, so that he found himself crouched in the dirt, gasping for air. Because, no, this wasn't possible. That Sherlock could have faked his death, John could almost believe. Even that he hadn't trusted him enough to tell him—that hurt—but it wouldn't be Sherlock's first secret. That wasn't what was shooting agony along his nerve endings.

It simply wasn't possible that Sherlock was working for Moriarty. Just … no.

So he fought for air as the world reversed itself on its axis, until he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders. "John? This really isn't the time or place for this."

And if that wasn't the funniest thing he'd heard all day, thought John, in the tiny portion of his brain that was still functioning. Trust Sherlock Holmes to run a deception of this magnitude and then complain about John's stumbling into it.

"I have to disagree," he managed to gasp out. "I think this is exactly the kind of situation that screams for a nervous breakdown."

"Not the time for your bad jokes either, John, no matter how much I've missed them." He could see Sherlock … Smog … turning his head to check for witnesses. "You're not supposed to be here."

John pulled himself to his feet and leaned against a handy tree—it might merely decorate an otherwise huge and empty parking lot, but it was a lot more firmly planted in reality than he was right now. "Neither are you, Sherlock. Last I checked, you were supposed to be dead."

"I'm here to take down Moriarty's network. Just because the man himself is dead doesn't mean all his works died with him."

"A beast without a head, yes," John murmured. "But that doesn't explain why you're here working as Erebor's head of security."

Sherlock gave him one of his patented you're-being-an-idiot looks. "Undercover, John. They made it so easy with a conveniently-named entity that's deliberately anonymous—perfect for infiltration. But you, John? You can't be here—not _all _of Moriarty's people are stupid. If they recognize you, they'll be statistically more likely to recognize me. Mycroft was supposed … did he send you?"

That … that was a frighteningly good question, thought John, not because Mycroft had sent him, but because he had definitely known he was coming. "He knew you were here? Unbelievable." John shook his head. "No, he didn't send me and he gave an honest effort to stalling me—to prevent this meeting, I imagine. No wonder he was so high-handed … I'm surprised he didn't lock me up."

"He should have," said Sherlock flatly, and that's when John broke.

"That's all you can say?" he hissed at Sherlock, mindful of the possibility of being overheard but almost too furious to care. "You're alive, after making me watch you jump off a building, and all you can say is that you wish your brother had kept us apart? What kind of… you know what? Never mind. I don't want to know, don't care. Don't tell me—not that you were going to anyway, I'm sure. You just keep playing your lovely little game. I've got things to do."

He started to turn away, almost too angry to see clearly. It was bad enough Sherlock had lied to him, but that his only thought at seeing John again was wishing Mycroft had kept him away? Then to hell with Sherlock Holmes.

He shrugged off the hand that reached for his elbow. And then did it again. And again, only this time he was all but tackled as Sherlock repeated his name over and over. "John. _John_. It's not what you think. This isn't a game. This is the only way I can get my life back. _Our _life. But no-one can know. Believe me. The only reason I didn't want you here was because it put you in danger."

John had stopped trying to walk away—he had to maintain some kind of dignity, didn't he?—but he held his entire body stiffly, even more than was warranted by the beating this morning. "Danger isn't exactly something new, Sherlock. In fact, I rather thought that was our trademark."

"There are different kinds of danger, John."

John kept his voice cold as he said, "True, but this isn't the place to discuss suicide rates in ex-soldiers, Sherlock."

He tried not to feel gratified when he felt Sherlock stiffen, but the feeling didn't last. He was tired. He was sore. He felt betrayed and belittled, like he had been an amusement easily set aside when better things came along.

He shifted his weight, trying to ease his complaining muscles. "John … are you hurt?"

He could admit he was glad to hear a note of concern in Sherlock's voice.

"Just bruises," he said. "The usual, considering I've been attacked twice in the last two days—not counting present company."

"Twice?"

"Oh, yes. It's been quite an interesting 48 hours." He counted off on his fingers. "There were the three thugs who tried to abduct me in Trollshaws yesterday—one of whom held a knife to my throat. There was the early exit we had to make from The Rivendell this morning—so I've been awake since four. Then there was the assassin who poisoned my friends and tried to stab me with a knife—a chef's knife, that time. That little affair left me with most of the bruises, which have stiffened up nicely thanks to your brother, who kept me driving for hours by making every light in a five mile radius turn red. Then I had the fun of breaking my friends out from Mycroft's secure hospital ward and driving for another three hours to get here. All in all, it's been quite a full day."

In the dim light, he wasn't sure what he saw crossing Sherlock's face, but he recognized the tight control as he repeated, "Assassin? Where was this?"

"This morning in Greenleaf. My friends were poisoned while I was on the phone with your brother. I admit I thought that was suspicious, but he said he wasn't responsible, and I admit that poison doesn't exactly seem his thing." His voice trailed off. "What?"

"Who are these friends of yours?" Sherlock asked as if it were the most important question of his life, as if he was afraid he already knew the answer.

"Thorn, Phil, and Kyle Durin, and William and Dale Fundinson."

Sherlock's face looked horrified. "_Thorn Durin_? God, John. Why not just climb into a lion's cage and have done with it?"

"He's no more dangerous than Sherlock Holmes," John said in the most biting tone he could manage.

"He's a criminal, John, one who started here and has continued…"

"No, Sherlock. He was _framed _here. This land and this company was in his family for years before Moriarty coerced him into giving up everything by ruining his name—sound familiar? Apparently there's proof on the database that he was framed when he was disgraced and forced out ten years ago."

"I saw no signs that the prior owner had been framed," Sherlock said, considering, "And going by his history since then my plan was simply to bankrupt the company, but … are you sure?"

"Sure that he was framed like you were?" John asked. "Yes, I am. Sure that there's proof inside? I won't know until he gets a chance to look."

"And what's in it for you?"

"We were introduced by a consultant named Grey Gandalf, who apparently specializes in teaming up people's needs. Thorn needed someone with the nerve to distract Smog, and I needed … well … a purpose, I suppose. So here I am—despite multiple attempts to keep me away."

John looked again at the expression on Sherlock's face. "Please tell me you didn't try to kill Thorn—or Phil and Kyle."

Sherlock swallowed. "Not kill, no. But … they're dangerous men, and I needed them kept away. I told him to mimic food-poisoning, just enough to keep them out of the way but which would be easily counteracted. I was waiting for the assassin to text me before calling 999—but he never did."

John felt physically ill, actually nauseated. "No, he didn't, because he was too busy trying to slice my throat open and then ended tied up on the floor while I called … And he used _Deptofol_. God, Sherlock … an _assassin_? I can't even … Why would you do that?"

"They weren't going to die, John," Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

"William Fundinson is over 60 years old, did you know that? His heart rate was dangerously low, his face gray, and his skin clammy before I managed to get a shot of adrenalin into him—and that was before the ambulance showed up with proper treatment. He did indeed very nearly _die_. For God's sake, _I_ nearly died! And that was because of you?" He could keep the disgust from his voice.

"I'm sorry, John. My act needs to be convincing."

John bit his lip. "And I'm just supposed to believe you—that Smog the mastermind security consultant is actually my best friend working undercover. That he's only playing at being a psychopath for form's sake—except for the fact that he's actually _acting like one_."

"Now, John, it just sounds ridiculous when you put it like that," Sherlock said. "You must see, though—with Moriarty dead, we have an unprecedented opportunity to take down his network, but we have to act fast, before it has a chance to reorganize."

"I do see that," John acknowledged, "But there's a fine line between playing a part and becoming it. You've been ruthless before, Sherlock, and callous in your dedication to science, but actually risking lives, innocent lives? If this is what you're doing with your afterlife, maybe it's better that you stay dead after all."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

#

* * *

(Note: So … that went well, don't you think? There's really no way to have a light, fluffy, amusing kind of comment after that conversation, is there? So, I'll just, um, leave now… Though I'm wondering if any of you saw that coming?)


	9. Chapter 9

When John got back to the van, he climbed into his seat without a word.

"Are you okay, John?" Kyle asked.

"Fine," he said, voice thick. "Let's go."

Thorn put the van in gear and pulled away. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you sure you're all right, Doctor?" His voice was edged with suspicion.

"Yeah. Just nerves. It's all fine."

John wasn't surprised when Thorn just looked at him. "What did you see, Dr Watson? This looks like more than just nerves. If you've given us away…"

"No," said John, hoping this was true. "I caught a glimpse of Smog, though, patrolling, and I … I recognized him, and it was a shock. So far as the security network is concerned, though, I was never there."

Well, except for the _head_ of security, he thought.

It troubled him that he had no idea what Sherlock was going to do. Sherlock Holmes he trusted implicitly, but Smog? Undercover or not, he had already done things John would never have believed of Sherlock. He knew his friend could be callous, knew he didn't much care about other people—definitely not their feelings—but Sherlock Holmes was a _good_ man. Just because his social graces were lacking didn't mean his heart wasn't in the right place.

So, what did it say about him that, in acting this role, he had slid into seriously anti-social behaviour? Whether he had chosen one of the gentler poisons or not … whether he had planned to call 999 or not … he had still hired an _assassin_.

John simply could not reconcile that with the man he knew.

All this on top of the revelation that Sherlock was alive? No wonder his legs had gone numb when he'd found out. This was just one too many shocks in an impossibly long day that had been jam-packed full of them. At this point, Mycroft's rather whimsical traffic jam was a fond, amusing memory.

He sat silent as Thorn drove, listening to the others talking quietly, respecting his need for a chance to absorb this—a kindness that was the only warm spot in his cracking heart.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to a small, dark cabin. With sounds of relief, everyone one unloaded, grabbing bags from the back and heading toward the house. Except for John, who wasn't quite ready to think about moving yet.

"You all right, John?" William was at his window, a concerned look on his face.

He nodded. "Yeah. I just … never expected he'd work for Moriarty, is all. My friend. He was a good person."

A fitting epitaph for Sherlock Holmes, he thought, not wanting to believe that, breathing or not, the good man who'd been his friend was truly gone. Because it was somehow worse that Sherlock was out there, walking around and talking, but diminished into a less-good man than John remembered. It would almost have been better for him to have remained dead.

He drew a deep breath and, looking past him to the concerned faces of the younger Durins, gave a brisk nod. "Come on. I'm starving. It's been a long time since lunch, and you … did they feed you in hospital?"

Phil made a face. "If you can call it that. I'm just glad your friend left a snack in the van—I'd be gnawing on the seats, otherwise."

"Ew, bad choice," said Kyle. "Have you looked at these things? They're appalling and about a million years old. And I don't think vinyl is digestible."

"Wait a minute," Phil said as Dale lifted out a box of supplies. "There was food in the van? How did I not know this?"

"Because you're a bottomless pit, and if you'd known, there'd be none for the rest of us."

John listened to them bantering as he hefted his own bag and walked inside, allowing himself to find solace in their silliness. Not everything was terrible, after all. His new friends were alive and well and, if they were lucky, their names could be cleared by morning. Or the next day? He didn't know what timeframe Thorn had planned for this caper of his. Maybe they wouldn't be breaking into Erebor until tomorrow—he just wished he knew what Sherlock was going to do.

Whether Sherlock was slipping toward the dark side or not, John was reasonably sure that he wouldn't kill him—any of them. He hoped that Sherlock was applying that fine intellect of his to the possibility that Thorn had been framed, that he wouldn't get in their way. Would he consider it better to bring down Moriarty's (stolen) company, or to hand it back to its rightful owner? Would John's participation make a difference?

He made himself useful, emptying the supplies out in the small kitchen while William lit a fire. "You look tired, John," he told him.

"I am, it's been a long day." Understatement of the year.

"And you've been on the go for all of it, capped off with the shock of seeing your friend at Erebor. Go lie down. I can handle this."

John opened his mouth to protest, but then couldn't manage the words. If he weren't so damned tired, he would push through, letting the others distract him from the unpalatable thoughts circling his brain, but now that they had stopped moving, he could feel the exhaustion creeping up his legs. So he just nodded and, following William's directions, headed up the small hallway to a tiny bedroom.

He didn't even have time to ease off his shoes before he was sound asleep.

#

John had no idea how long he'd slept, but when the small scratching noise woke him, it was pitch dark outside—darker than he'd seen it since Afghanistan. He'd grown too used to London's constant lights.

He sat up on the bed and found that someone had pulled his shoes off for him, and covered him with a scratchy blanket (thankfully not orange). There was a plate of food on the table next to the bed and, again, he felt a surge of warmth at the concern. He'd only known the Durins a couple of days, but was comforted by the sense of family—and the relief he hadn't expected that they had included him.

He pulled out his phone to check the time and was stunned. He'd slept for seven hours. He hadn't even heard the text messages that had come in. One from an unknown number that said "Sorry," which he promptly deleted, and one from Mycroft, saying, "You weren't to have learned this way."

Right, thought John with a sigh. Because there were good ways to find out that your dead best friend was alive and masquerading as a ruthless security chief. Or at least, a security chief for a (hopefully?) dead psychopath.

His stomach grumbled, and he picked up the plate next to him, grateful for both the kind gesture and the actual food.

What was he going to do, he wondered as he bit into the sandwich. Thorn was already … not quite distrustful, but wary of him. If he hid the fact that he'd not only spoken to Smog but mentioned the file … he didn't like to think of the repercussions. John didn't _think_ Sherlock would delete the file out of hand just to preserve his cover, but it wasn't Sherlock he was dealing with. It was Smog. How deeply had he thrown himself into this role?

He would have trusted his friend Sherlock implicitly, but a man who could hire an assassin? Not so much.

His phone vibrated again, and he automatically glanced down.

—_Come outside._

—_Please._

John sighed, and tried to calculate the odds that there were a bunch of goons waiting outside to abduct him. Sherlock had said quite clearly he didn't want him involved, and he wouldn't put it past the man who'd drugged him in Baskerville to lock him away somewhere "safe" just because it suited him.

He stared at his phone for a long moment, they typed,

—_No thanks. I'd rather NOT be kidnapped or see my friends attacked today._

—_I promise, John. I just need to talk._

John considered. He was inclined to believe him, but…

—_You're not signing your texts_.

—_Good, John. Very observant. S._

—_S for Sherlock? Or S for Smog_?

—_Which are you more likely to talk to? S_.

That was actually a good question. There was no question he didn't want to talk to Smog at all, but he didn't really want to talk to Sherlock just then, either. Or rather, he did—desperately—but couldn't bear the disappointment. Sherlock might have told him he wasn't a hero, but John had to admit he'd always looked at him as one. A selfish, rude, irritating, occasionally infuriating one, but a hero all the same, putting his super observation skills to serve the greater good (as long as the greater good wasn't boring).

After a long pause, John sent,

—_I would love to talk to my friend, but he's dead._

—_Only to outward appearances. And he misses you terribly. S_.

Damn it. That wasn't playing fair.

—_Sentiment_.

—_I'm told it makes the world go round, like a teddy bear. S_.

—_You really know nothing about astronomy, do you? Or nursery rhymes_.

—_No, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't like you to come watch the stars with me. S_.

—_Platonically, of course. S._

Pulling the blanket around him and grabbing his shoes, John padded toward the door, peering intently through the dark, trying not to grin at the stereophonic snores coming from all directions. He really must have been exhausted to have slept through this.

He edged past Dale, asleep in front of the fire, and moved to the front door, hoping it didn't creak when it opened.

It didn't. John stepped out onto the porch warily, shivering in the brisk air as he moved to one of the chairs set to enjoy the it's-too-dark-to-see-anything view. He was glad he'd grabbed the blanket.

And then a shadow slid into the chair next to him.

"I'm sorry, John."

Words he'd never expected to hear in this lifetime, he thought. "Sorry for what, exactly?"

"Leaving you behind. Because believe me, I didn't have a choice. I would have ... would have given anything to have brought you along, but I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Moriarty's web was too large, his plan too good." Sherlock leaned back, an unfamiliar silhouette in a bulky jacket. "He forced me off that roof by placing snipers on you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson with instructions to shoot if I didn't jump. I couldn't … the risk that you would attract the wrong kind of attention, to draw his wrath even after I was gone … I couldn't risk that, John. I needed to know you were safe, all of you."

"Is that why you tried to have me kidnapped two mornings ago?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I didn't even know you were traveling with the Durins until you told me so last night."

"So you tried to kidnap an innocent bloke you didn't even know?"

Sherlock's voice was thick with frustration. "No, not precisely. My sources told me they were heading to Erebor with some plan to try to break in. I had no reason to believe that Thorn Durin was innocent, so the only thing I could think was that he was coming to try to perform an act of corporate sabotage, and, well … I was already taking care of that. Whatever he had planned would have just gotten in the way. I needed to slow him down enough that the job would be done before he got here."

John couldn't help the sigh. "And it didn't occur to you that having one of his company kidnapped was crossing the line? What is it with you and Mycroft and kidnapping? I swear, sometimes you're just like your brother."

"John! Now that hurts."

"If the shoe fits, Sherlock," John said. "So when that didn't work, you moved up to an assassin … you just happened to have one on payroll, did you?"

"He was just supposed to reproduce the effects of food poisoning—nothing extreme. He decided to … improvise … on his own merits."

"Well, that's the problem of releasing your attack dogs—sometimes they get out of control." John sat for a minute, and then burst out, "I don't understand how you could do that, Sherlock. No-one knows better than me the lengths you'll go for science, and I truly do want to believe you're working at taking down Moriarty's web, but … God, Sherlock. There are lines you don't cross!"

He was stunned when Sherlock responded, voice almost breaking, "And that's why I wish I could have brought you with me, John. I said it the night you saved me from the cabbie—you've got a strong moral compass. You won't let anything stop you when you believe you're right, but you know where the lines _are_. And you make sure that I do, too. I miss that."

John was speechless. Coming from Sherlock, that was like an entire speech. Admitting he had limitations? That he needed John? Before John could reply, though, a voice came from the darkness.

"That's all very touching, but what the hell is going on here?"

#

John froze, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped from brisk to it's-warmer-in-Antarctica.

"Christ, Thorn, you scared me," he said after a minute, as Sherlock just sat as if he were frozen, too—though John was sure his sudden chill had other causes.

"Who's this, doctor?"

And you can add Thorn's mood to the general iciness, John thought as Thorn stepped forward into the moonlight. John glanced at Sherlock, but he wasn't giving any hints. Just wonderful. Sherlock at his iciest, Thorn at his most suspicious, and John stuck in the middle. There was no way this was going to go well.

"Thorn," he said after a pause to brace himself, "The late Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Thorn Durin, who was greatly wronged by James Moriarty—something the two of you have in common." (So don't yell at me, he prayed. It was either far too early or far too late for that, and either way, he was much too tired.)

The two men, though, both completely ignored John as they eyed each other, measuring and judging as their breath misted in the air. There was no move toward cordial handshakes, no easing of the tension. They looked for all the world like they were sizing each other up for a fight.

Which, really, seemed all too possible.

As the moment drew out, John stood up. "It's freezing out here and Sherlock has just come back from the dead. I need tea. If we wake the others up, I don't care."

Thorn gave a grudging nod and turned toward the door as Sherlock gave a smooth, dangerous smile. "John's introduction was incomplete," he said, waiting for Thorn to turn back and then saying with relish, "You might also know me as Smog."

Oh, Christ. It was going to be another one of those days.

#

* * *

(Note: Oh, Sherlock, that is NOT helping. Yep—things are about to get VERY interesting, huh? Sherlock and Thorn? Somehow I don't think they're going to be bosom buddies. I just hope John can keep the brawling down to a dull roar … Phil and Kyle need their sleep.)

Also, just as a head's up, my Mom had surgery yesterday and is coming home today. She should be fine, but it's possible this is going to wreak havoc with my writing schedule for the next week. Rest assured that I have a few chapters drafted ahead, so hopefully this won't interfere too much, but ... Moms trump Fanfiction in importance. (No, really, I checked!)


	10. Chapter 10

"I told you I'd recognized him," John said yet again fifteen minutes later, hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

"You didn't say he was your dead flatmate, doctor."

"No, I didn't," John agreed. "Because, really, how was I supposed to explain that? It sounded insane even to me—and it's not like I hid the shock all that well, is it?" He spotted the smirk on Sherlock's face and rounded on him. "And don't you even start with the 'I told you so's, Sherlock, and telling me I can't act. I can dissemble as well as the next man, but you gave me the shock of my life and that's a bit different than lying to help a cover story. It takes a little time to absorb a shock of that magnitude."

"Maybe so, but I did say there were reasons I couldn't tell you, John, and that is only one of them. I just didn't expect you to start socializing with the criminal class."

John felt his jaw drop as Thorn calmly said, "Says Erebor's ruthless security chief. I'm thinking you were behind some of our mishaps these last two days? You do realize you almost got the doctor here killed, not to mention my nephews and two oldest friends?"

"Over-zealous day-workers," Sherlock said. "I assure you, they were only meant to use delaying tactics."

"Delaying…" Thorn sounded as if he couldn't believe his ears. "Yes, I believe a trip to the morgue would have delayed all of us quite nicely."

"None of you were meant to be hurt," Sherlock said, "And you're missing the point…"

"Oh, no. I can see the point quite clearly," Thorn said, voice deadly. "You almost caused all our deaths. That is not a 'delaying tactic.' That is a _crime_, and considering the company that you are keeping these days, Mr Holmes, I'd be wary about who you call a criminal."

"I am _undercover_," said Sherlock, practically hissing in his fierceness. "What's your excuse?"

Thorn just leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. "Same as yours, I expect. Driven from my home, reduced to whatever was necessary to survive … though I didn't try to paint it in such pretty colours. I didn't have the luxury of a brother in high places to ease my way."

John just groaned. Dragging Mycroft into this was just a mistake. "Boys," he said, before Sherlock could retaliate. "Can we stick to the topic, here, instead of goading each other?"

"And what topic is that, doctor?"

John sighed. He was growing to hate his title, the way Thorn drawled it out in that dismissive, antagonistic way. "How we're going to get the file you need to clear your name, get Erebor out of Moriarty's hands—or whichever peon of his is running it—so that you can get back to your life while Sherlock can move on and hopefully _never do any of these things again_."

Both men just glared at him. Oh, wonderful. Now they were angry with him. "Look, just … Sherlock, tell us why you're here."

"Sherlock?"

Phil's voice was far too bright and interested for this time of morning, and John started to wonder if climbing out the window was a possibility, because nothing about this situation was getting any better.

"I thought he was dead!"

And… there was Kyle, with William and Dale standing behind him. So much for keeping secrets.

Sherlock and Thorn were back to glaring at each other—presumably each blaming the other for waking up an audience. "He was," John said, "I mean, we were supposed to think he was, but he's really been working undercover to bring down the remains of Moriarty's network."

"And you knew about this, John?" asked William.

He shook his head. "No. No, I didn't."

William looked at him and then with a glance at Sherlock, asked, "You found out tonight, didn't you? At Erebor? This is…?"

"Smog, yes," said John, already tired of this conversation. He was tired of the whole thing. He should be performing cartwheels (his best friend was miraculously back from the dead!) but instead the entire thing was a mess of conflicting goals and methods and, by God, vastly conflicting personalities.

The sad thing, he thought as the room exploded with surprise and recriminations, was that, really, Sherlock and Thorn's goals were aligned. There was no reason that they couldn't accomplish both if they worked together, but that would mean the two strong, angry men glaring at each other would have to … well … work together, and that didn't seem like it was going to happen any time soon.

John wondered for a moment how, exactly, he had gotten sucked into this in the first place. Why _had_ Grey picked him for this mission? Had he known about Sherlock? (In which case, John would be very interested to know how … and he was sure Mycroft would be even more eager to find out.)

He felt a kinship with the Durins and Fundinsons. He had only known them a few days, but they had been intense days, and he hadn't felt part of such a tight-knit group since the army. He wanted to see them win, damn it. And it wasn't like that meant Sherlock would lose, after all. He just had to revise his plan from destroying the company to ousting the bad blood so that Thorn could step back in, reputation restored.

Which would put Sherlock one step closer to restoring his own reputation, wouldn't it?

He just let them all yell for a while and just sat with his eyes closed. They were bound to see reason eventually, right? (It was Sherlock's middle name, wasn't it? If it wasn't something even weirder like Nephrology or Sophocles?)

He just really didn't know how reasonable Thorn would be. He hadn't known him long enough to know much more than that he was stubborn, prickly, and fiercely loyal. And that he didn't seem to trust John, not entirely—and when you throw Sherlock Holmes into the mix?

As much as John wasn't the type to hide when things got rough, this was shaping up to be the kind of morning when crawling back into bed sounded very, very tempting.

Letting the angry voices flow past him, he opened his eyes again to find his five new friends arguing loudly, but Sherlock Holmes just leaning on the wall, ignoring all of it as he watched John, his gaze measuring.

John met his eyes, acknowledging the small eyebrow lift that commented on his unusual behaviour just as strongly as any words might have. John had a lot of skills, but one of the things he was particularly good at was taking things in stride—he never would have survived as Sherlock's flatmate if he weren't. (Survived in more ways than one, really.) So why was he sitting here feeling defeated rather than doing what he always did, and just stepping up to get the job done?

Because, he thought back at the man, normally I'm not dealing with this kind of shock, this kind of betrayal. I'm not sure you're the man I remember anymore, and I'm wondering if you ever were, if I somehow misjudged, because I never expected this level of deception.

There was a flicker of regret on Sherlock's face, there and gone so quickly, John wasn't sure he'd even seen it.

And, really, no matter what Sherlock was doing _now_, he was sure that he had not misjudged the man before—before Moriarty, before he jumped. John had seen innocent boys go to war, to be transformed into soldiers who would see and do things they never thought possible. In the months since he "died," Sherlock might well have been driven to do things he would not have considered before. There might be a line that should not be crossed, but that didn't mean Sherlock hadn't been driven right up to it, forced to it, until he was teetering, toes at the line, fighting to stay on the right side regardless of the force at his back trying to push him over.

Thorn, too, for that matter. He'd lost everything ten years ago and had fought for the last ten years to survive.

Really, all of them had, and John knew better than anyone how hard it was to start over when everything had been ripped away.

Without conscious thought, he suddenly rose to his feet, silencing the room. Everyone stared at him, surprised, but quiet. He didn't know what they saw on his face, but it was enough to demand their attention, and he was glad for that. They might have started separately, but they had a common goal—at least for Erebor—and damn it, they were going to work together.

He wasn't going to lose any more friends, not if he could help it.

#

Which was how he found himself here, he thought, hours later, Sneaking into Erebor Corporation with a USB drive in his pocket.

All he had to do, Phil had told him, was to insert that into a pc attached to the main computer. It would send a signal or something highly technical that John hadn't understood that would enable Phil to hack in from his computer to … hell, it would do what he needed. John hadn't really understood the explanation. That didn't worry him, though. What did worry him was the security features.

Because while it sounded easy ("Find a computer"), it needed to be one with the right kind of access—and a password he could crack. One that was in a location he could find without being spotted, because even with his Ring (which had taken some explaining) he still needed to make sure he wasn't seen. Sherlock had reassured him that his men did _not_ have shoot-to-kill orders, so that he would be perfectly safe. Even if he were captured, Sherlock would get him out, somehow.

It had all seemed so straightforward back at William's cabin.

Now, though, it was nerve-wracking, and not really his thing. It wasn't the first time he had snuck or bluffed his way in somewhere for a good reason, but even at Baskerville he'd had Sherlock for back-up. Right now, he was alone, and he hadn't even invaded Afghanistan by himself. He found himself wondering once again why Thorn and the others had needed him at all, hoping he wasn't just a patsy for them.

Though, he considered, if that had been true, Sherlock wouldn't have stood for it. No matter what else he had done or would do, John didn't believe Sherlock would let anything happen to him.

And after that scene at the cabin … Even after John had stood up and told everyone that they could all help each other if they could just get past this, there had been the mother of all shouting matches. He had finally seen the temper that Thorn kept so well in check. He hadn't realized the man's prickly, thorny nature was his attempt at being nice and friendly because, when he got angry … John resisted the urge to rub at the bruises at his throat.

He hadn't enjoyed being called a traitor, after all. Keeping Sherlock's existence a secret had been bad enough, but when Thorn learned John had told him about the file they were hoping to find? Well … it hadn't been pretty. He'd lunged across the room so fast, pinning John up against the wall with his arm across his throat, before anyone else could move. He could still feel the heat of Thorn's breath as he'd asked, "What did you DO, doctor?" as everyone else yelled in protest.

Well, almost everyone. While the rest of Thorn's company was protesting, but not interfering in their leader's actions, Sherlock had moved, tearing Thorn away from John and shoving him against a wall in turn. "Don't you touch him. He is the most loyal man in England and you would do well not to question that—not in front of me, not ever."

It had all been very dramatic, but it had served to break the stand-still. Thorn had apologized to John, blaming the stress of planning an attempt he'd dreamed about for a decade. Sherlock's defence of his friend had somehow won him the respect of William and Dale. (Phil and Kyle had already been well on the way toward adoring fans, even before Sherlock's resurrection.) And somehow, he still wasn't quite sure how, they had all bonded together over _him_.

How that bonding and camaraderie had ended with him creeping down hallways all by himself, he wasn't quite sure.

He had an earpiece, though, which let both Sherlock and Thorn talk in his ear. Sherlock was giving him warnings based on video footage and patrol schedules (doing what he could to (1) keep John off of any security tapes that could get him in trouble later on and (2) making sure he didn't run into any patrols).

Thorn, on the other hand, was giving him occasionally conflicting directions and arguing with Sherlock. John kept reminding himself that, after ten years of dreaming, Thorn needed to be involved in this somehow. John knew it just killed him that he couldn't march in himself because he was too well known. But still … it was _his_ ear they were arguing in, and his nerves were stretched taut enough.

It would probably have worried him more if he'd realized how determined Thorn was to get inside the building.

#

It turned out to be sooner rather than later.

John had barely finished his task, getting to the computer control room and plugging in Phil's might-as-well-be-magic USB drive. Once he'd gotten the all-clear from Sherlock, he had started moving again, working toward the exit, when he heard a commotion.

Running footsteps, shouts about intruders.

He looked frantically around the hallway, but there was nowhere to run.

He was trapped.

#

* * *

Notes: There goes Thorn, concentrating so hard on "Mine!" like a spoiled child, he loses all remnants of common sense. But then, going by the Thorin in the book, I usually spend 200 pages wanting to slap the dwarf for being so whiny and complaining while he seems not to do much of anything at all other than concentrating on "I'm a KING!" as hard as he can. Thank heaven for the movie, which gave the character some actual depth. (The good looks didn't hurt, either.) That's not going to change the fact that he's going to make some bad choices here as he senses his goal within his grasp … because, in any incarnation, patience isn't really Thorin's strong-suit. Or did I mean keeping his temper?

(Oh, and my Mom is home from the hospital and hopefully today will go better than yesterday did. She's doing fine but not exactly feeling well, you know?)


	11. Chapter 11

John plastered himself up against a wall, frantically wondering what the hell he'd done to cause this. He'd been so careful! Any second, though, guards were going to come swarming down this hallway, and there was nothing he could do. His Ring might make him electronically invisible, but this was a long, empty, white hallway. He was fairly sure they were going to see him.

To his relief, the latch on the door right next to him clicked as Sherlock's voice said in his ear, "Get inside, John."

John plunged through the doorway with relief, closing it as gently and quickly as he could behind him, just as a dozen or so men went running by. "What happened?"

Sherlock's voice was dry as he responded, "It seems your new friends grew impatient."

"I've been waiting for this for ten years, Smog," Thorn's voice came. "Now that we have the file, there's no reason for me to stay outside _my_ company anymore. Think what a wonderful visual it will make—the maligned CEO making a brave stand in his stolen company, just as the proof spreads of my innocence."

There was an edge of impatience in Sherlock's voice. "That's not … that wasn't the plan. You need to allow some _time_."

John would have found Sherlock imploring someone else to have patience hilarious if he hadn't been in such dire straits himself. He couldn't help feeling the same way, though, as Thorn grated out, "I've waited long enough," and shut off his mic.

"Oh, Christ," muttered John. "This is SO not going the way it's supposed to."

"No kidding," replied Sherlock. "He doesn't realize … he didn't think it through! He's going to get himself and his nephews killed. No matter what's in that file, he hasn't been exonerated yet. Right now, he's just an intruder—an armed intruder. It doesn't matter if Smog's men aren't supposed to kill … they'll do it anyway."

"You're just telling me this now?" John asked, feeling panicky.

"Oh, please, John. I wouldn't let anything happen to you."

"That's swell, but how are we going to save Thorn from his own hubris?" There was no answer. "Tell me that you're not going to leave them hanging, _Smog_."

There was a longer pause than he liked before Sherlock's voice said, "No—not that he doesn't deserve it. They're making a _video_," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "Apparently he feels that if he can get public opinion on his side, everything will go swimmingly."

This was a nightmare, he thought. Apparently Thorn and his merry band of followers had snuck inside the instant John sent them the file and were holed up in the president's office, with the doors barricaded. And now they were making a movie?

John made a rude noise and shook his head. "Idiot. He'll just look like a terrorist—a man who's lost his mind and can't accept that he lost it and his company ten years ago. The press will have a field day and nobody will care that he's been wronged because he's going to look like the bad guy. He's going to lose it all, all over again, only this time it will be his own fault for being stupid and throwing it away."

This whole situation was rapidly devolving into a nightmare, he thought. Rightful owner or not, Thorn was now surrounded by Smog's presumably ruthless security team and was sending out his unverified story to the world in the vain hope that it would sway public opinion … when all it was really going to do was draw the Press to the site. And the last thing John wanted was to face the Press—not to mention that being a huge risk for Sherlock.

He could hear banging from somewhere in the building and asked, "So … what are the security teams armed with?"

"Tear gas, bully sticks, tasers. Nothing lethal."

John fought down the urge to scream. "Oh, yes, they can be. They really can—especially in the hands of Moriarty's people. You've got to stand them down, Smog."

"I have my own job to do. I'm not really here to help them protect the company."

"Yes, I know, but leaders are supposed to _lead_. If you're willing to go up there and keep your army of security trolls under control, maybe things won't escalate … or not too fast. But you're the only one who can do it. It's your chance to give a bunch of orders to people who have to listen."

Sherlock's voice was almost chastened as he replied, "And what are you going to be doing?"

"I'll think of something. Go!"

Sure, John, he thought, easy for you to say. What can you do? He pulled out his phone and dialled. "We've got another problem."

"_Oh, I know_," Grey's voice came calmly down the line. "_I'm actually on my way with reserve forces. I had hoped you would be able to keep Thorn's worst impulses under control, Dr Watson_."

"I've got my own problems, Grey. He practically hung me out to dry—the minute he had the file, he didn't care if I was caught or not. Believe me, this is not something we discussed." John knew he was going to be furious about that later on, when he had a chance to think about it, but for now he had other things to worry about.

He could hear yelling now, coming from upstairs. "On the other hand, we did have one thing fall unexpectedly in our favour," he told Grey, though how he was supposed to explain about Sherlock … and, did he even dare? It was supposed to be a secret, after all.

"_You found Smog, in his current … incarnation_," said Grey. "_I expected you would_."

"You did?" John was floored.

"_Of course. My sources of information are excellent. I knew he wouldn't let any harm come to you_."

"And that's why you picked me for this gig?" John asked with half a laugh. "I hope you appreciate irony, because it almost got me killed twice … three times if you include right now."

"_A misunderstanding, I'm sure. So, Thorn and the others are in the main office_?"

"The President's office, yes," said John,

"_Smog is controlling the security guards_?"

"For now, but they're barricaded in for the moment—and I don't trust Moriarty's people an inch, even if he's gone. All it takes is one with a grudge and Thorn will be dead."

"_Exactly. Well, my ETA is about half an hour, doctor. Do your best to keep everyone in one piece until then_?"

And before John could respond, the man was gone. Wonderful, he thought, as he looked at his phone and considered. Desperate times, he supposed.

#

John stared out the window.

From here, he could see the gate house at the road and … when did all those people get here?

He stood gaping in front of the window, speechless. The Press Corps, he thought. Of course they were here. They might not spin the story the way Thorn hoped, but of course they came to spin it. They had to make their stories out of something, after all, even if they folded and cut and tweaked things until you couldn't even recognize how it had started.

But, still … he had thought maybe one or two reporters might have shown up. A camera crew, perhaps. But this? This was an army.

He pulled out his phone and filmed the chaos and then emailed it to Sherlock, Grey, and Mycroft. "Things just got more complicated," he wrote.

There went all hope of Thorn getting out of here discreetly … forget about Sherlock. Or himself! He still hadn't had a chance to really talk to Sherlock, he didn't know the full story there, but one thing he was sure about was that Moriarty's network was not dead—and not only was Sherlock at risk if he were spotted by the ravening hordes of reporters out there, but Thorn would be, as well. By jumping the gun and taking action now—rather than waiting until, say, his innocence had been proven—Thorn was putting himself at risk to every Moriarty loyalist out there.

And now, thanks to his little promotional video and the Press siege outside the gates … everyone would know. Which was exactly the problem.

Everyone would know exactly where he was and where he was going if they wanted to take the trouble-making Thorn out of the picture.

Suddenly, it wasn't the security guards IN the building that were the biggest threats.

He considered what Mycroft had told him just now. Apparently Sherlock hadn't bothered to forward on Thorn's secret file to his brother, so John had. He knew Thorn would disapprove, but John didn't really care. Thorn had been the one to create this nightmare in the first place, he would just have to put up with whatever was necessary to get him out of it. And, anyway, Thorn might have the documents in his possession, but what if he couldn't decrypt them in time? What if they turned out not to be what he needed them to be? Yes, he understood that Thorn didn't trust the government because the government hadn't helped him when he needed them ten years ago. (And he was the first to admit Mycroft wasn't above tweaking things for his own ends.) But still … if they wanted to get out of here in one piece and still stand a legal chance of retaining any hold on the company, clueing Mycroft in was his best bet.

If nothing else, the fact that Sherlock was already here, working on removing Moriarty's influence from the mining company, had to help. Even if he wasn't willing to help John, surely he would help his brother?

He reached up to switch his earpiece back on, and was immediately blasted by the sound of men yelling, voices loud and arrogant. It was just like being in a warzone again, he thought, except there were no bullets actually flying past his head.

That didn't mean there was no danger, though.

"Smog?" he asked, "Where do you need me? Up there? Or in the control room?"

"_Everybody just needs to stay calm, and stay where they are_," came Sherlock's voice, as if addressing his men. "_There's no reason for anybody to get hurt, Mr Durin_."

Yeah, right, thought John. As if he was going to stay here and wait for all of them to get beaten or tasered. Before he left the room, though, he dialled Kyle's number. "Having fun?"

"_John! Are you seeing this on telly yet? Or, you're probably not near a telly, I can send you a link to YouTube, though. You wouldn't believe_…"

"Kyle," John said in that authoritative voice he'd picked up from being both a captain and a surgeon. "I don't need the video. I'm in the building. I just want to know if anyone is hurt?"

"_You're … but uncle said you were leaving as soon as you'd finished your job_?"

"That was the plan, but then someone invaded and tripped a whole slew of security alerts and I got caught in the lock-down."

"_Oh_." Kyle suddenly sounded very young. "_He said you wouldn't be here_."

"Is he there? Can I talk to him?"

There were muffled voices and the sounds of a phone being handed over, then Thorn's voice came hard in his ear. "_Doctor_?"

"There's an army of rabid reporters outside, did you know?"

"_I certainly hoped there would be. Don't you see? This is just what we need to draw attention to our cause_."

"Your cause? You sound like one of those two-bit villains in bad eighties telly, Thorn. I thought you were going to do the responsible thing, and take your evidence to the authorities, to do this right?"

"_And spend the next ten years in legal battles? This will be faster—the court of public opinion will_…"

"Will do you no good whatsoever in the long run," John said firmly. "Believe me, I know better than most. They'll turn on you the minute you're not glamorous anymore, or the minute you get someone hurt. They always turn. It's the Law you need to win over, and behaving like a child throwing a tantrum isn't going to help."

"_Yes, thank you for the advice, doctor. Do feel free to use Dale's van to get to the train station_."

"Train station? First I need to get out of the building, Thorn. If you hadn't noticed, we're kind of locked in—all of us."

"_You should have moved faster, then. Just stay out of the way. It's not your fight_."

"You made it my fight when you asked for my help," John told him. "So tell me what I can do."

"_Your services are no longer required, doctor. Have a good life_."

And just as he heard a surge of sound upstairs, the line went dead.

#

* * *

(Note: What's this? An actual siege in an office building? Why yes, yes it is … and it was NOT easy to do, so I hope you all appreciate it. Oh, and Note.2 … I hope you're not expecting an actual WAR in the next chapter? With, say, five armies? Because … 21st century England, remember? Oh. Well ... I'll see what I can do, but I can't make promises. Last time I checked, orcs, goblins, elves, and dwarves were still very much fictional.)


	12. Chapter 12

John was tempted to throw the phone across the room, but his better nature prevailed—not because it was childish to throw the phone, but because he was going to need it.

What the hell was Thorn doing? Here, he'd thought he was an intelligent man, but the way Thorn was acting? Anything but. Even if Sherlock managed to stave off the guards, they were practically surrounded by press and gawkers and the man had implicated his nephews and friends (and John) in a break-in. Assuming they all got out of this alive, they'd be fighting the legal battles for years.

Well, John was no lawyer. He'd concentrate on the getting out alive part.

Decided, he reached for the doorknob and … it wouldn't turn. Damn it, Sherlock had locked him in! He tapped his earpiece again. "Smog, my door seems to be stuck. You wouldn't be high-handedly trying to enforce my safety by taking away my freedom of choice again, would you?"

Silence, and then … "_People are going to get hurt._"

"I know, that's why I need to be there," John said. "Don't make me shoot my way out of here. It would just draw all kinds of unwelcome attention."

"_Not to mention that the doors are bulletproof_."

"Are the locks? The hinges?" John asked, voice hard. "You can't keep doing this. I thought we took risks together? When did you become so over-protective?"

"_June 15th_," was all Sherlock said, but the connection was broken and John was alone in his room with his thoughts.

He supposed he could be flattered that Sherlock Holmes considered him worth protecting, but this wasn't acceptable. He looked around the room. If he couldn't get out the door, how about the ceiling? Were there vents he could fit into? Ceiling tiles he could move to climb directly into the hallway?

He took another look at the burgeoning crowd outside the gates and swore. The bigger the audience, the more determined Thorn would be, and the greater pressure for law enforcement to look like they're doing something.

So, fine. He would do what he could to help, but first, he needed to get out of this room.

#

Ten minutes later, John was creeping up the hallway, following his ears toward the action.

He was lucky, because the guards were so concentrated on what was going on inside the president's office suite, they weren't paying attention to a possible threat behind them. While the carelessness irritated the soldier in him, he couldn't deny it was helpful. His Ring might hide him from electronic sensors, but if any of those idiots had bothered to turn their heads, it would have been useless.

He was able to duck into the empty conference room just up the hall with no-one the wiser—including Sherlock, who he could hear exhorting his men to keep their heads.

"The police are right outside. I've been talking to Captain Bard on the phone. I'm sure our … visitors … won't do anything untoward that would draw the wrong kind of attention. All we need do is wait them out."

"Why?" a belligerent voice asked. "I say we just break in there. It's not like we don't outnumber them. They wouldn't be able to fight back … for long."

John recognized the voice as belonging to the man who'd held a knife to his throat in Trollshaws. He thought they'd been arrested?

"Indeed," came Sherlock's icy voice. "It seems to me the last time you faced them in a fight you lost. Even after you were specifically told no-one was to be hurt."

Their voices were getting louder and John heard their footsteps pause outside his door, giving him just enough time to hide behind the A/V unit in the corner.

"Well, I … the others ran and left me on my own. I did my best, but there were six of them…"

"You were bested by one man. One, short man you yourself had bound and were holding a knife on—yet he managed to beat you. Because yes," John could hear a hint of viciousness in Sherlock's voice, "I saw the footage just this morning. Would you care to explain?"

"I…" Through the jungle of cables, John could see the man fidgeting. He couldn't help his own sense of vindication at seeing the man caught off-guard. "I don't know how he did it. The zip tie must have been defective, or something. And—you saw the tape? He was some kind of ninja."

"Or," the voice was silky and smooth and John recognized it for Sherlock at his most dangerous. There was a rustle of movement and then a sharp thud as Sherlock grabbed the guard's neck and forced him down on the table as he leaned over him and hissed directly into his ear. "You were up against an invalided-home, wounded army veteran with limited mobility in his shoulder who very simply outsmarted and outfought you because you threatened not only himself, but his friends. Hmm?"

"Oi! I mean, yeah, maybe. He could have been military, but from one of those elite squads, you know, who do all the black ops?" He sputtered out with a gurgle as Sherlock gripped his throat.

"RAMC is the unit you're thinking of. The man's a _doctor_. Which was lucky for you, because he's dedicated to saving lives not taking them. Not even when they're as stupid as yours." John watched as Sherlock leaned closer. "The man, in fact, is a friend of mine, and I don't take kindly to your having threatened his life."

John watched the guard's eyes widen at the news as he frantically tried to throw Sherlock's weight off his back. And then his eyes widened even further as he spotted John's hiding spot. "I didn't know," he gasped out. "I didn't _know_. I'm sorry!"

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised at the sudden capitulation, but then looked over to see John. "Of course you're here," he grumbled. "Do you never do as you're told?"

"You said it yourself, Smog," said John, "My friends are threatened. I'm not going to sit idly by and let all hell break loose."

"How did you even get up here?"

"You're not asking me to give up secrets, are you?" John asked as he straightened in his corner, swatting away computer cables and wondering why they didn't have their video-conferencing monitor up on a wall like everybody else. "After you locked me in a room downstairs?"

"Yes, how did you get out?"

"I'm not as incompetent as you seem to think, Smog. I'd use my little dust-up with your friend there as an example, but he's not really the best example of my skills."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "No, no he's not, is he? He does know that you're here, though, and that presents a problem."

The guard gurgled again, unable to talk now with the pressure at his throat.

"Smog," John said, warning.

"I won't kill him," Sherlock said, "Even if he really is too stupid to allow to live."

"If we killed people for stupidity, you'd be the only person left on the planet. The man can't breathe, Smog. Let him go."

"Why? After he was so willing to kill you?"

John watched as the man grew more and more desperate, and wished he knew just how much of a bluff this was for Sherlock. Before this week, he would not have thought his threat would be real, but now? He couldn't be sure. "You said it yourself. I'm a doctor. I don't kill people unless there's no other choice."

"True," breathed Sherlock, and John was relieved to see his hand loosen, allowing the guard to gasp for air. "Hand me some of those cables."

With a nod, John turned to the video-conferencing setup—he might not know how to string one of these together, but breaking it down into its component parts, he could do. Within minutes, he had a handful of cables that Sherlock used to bind the guard, just before knocking him unconscious. "Was that really necessary?"

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly. "He's alive and largely unharmed, but I needed to teach him a lesson. Let it go. Now, tell me how you got up here."

John shook his head. "No. It's not important right now. We need to get Thorn and his group out of there safely.

"Why are they so important to you?" Sherlock asked, frustrated. "They've almost gotten you killed several times, and now that you've gotten here and retrieved the file they so desperately wanted, they kicked you to the kerb without even a thought for your safety. Why would you be loyal to them?"

John just looked at him, thinking of all the things he could say, the words he might use to try to explain, but finally he just said, "You should know that already. It's what friends _do_, and even if Thorn is being irrational, well … why should the rest of them suffer for that? Do his nephews deserve to be arrested for following someone they trust into a bad situation? I don't want to see them hurt—any of them—and things are escalating too quickly. There's an army of the press out there, as well as a bigger crowd of spectators than I would think was possible so fast this far out in the country, and the police are just waiting for a go-ahead to burst in here. And if they do, your guards are going to do whatever it takes to get in there first, and my friends are going to get _hurt_/em."

And as if his own words had caused it, just then, outside in the hall, all hell broke loose.

#

John was running for the door before he could even think, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. "You can't be seen here!"

And, oh, just then John wished his Ring really were magic so that he could just put it on and slip into the fray, unseen. He knew Sherlock was right, though. It was bad enough he'd been seen in the Durins' company outside Erebor, but here? He couldn't afford to be connected to this little break-in-cum-siege of theirs. His notoriety would only hurt their chances of a fair settlement.

Finally, he nodded. "Fine, but if anybody gets hurt, I don't care what you say—I'm a doctor, and I'm going to help. Deal?"

Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue, but the shouts and thumps from outside the door were getting louder and so he gave a brisk nod of his own and reached for the door handle. "And you be careful, too!" John shouted after him as he turned away, frustrated. He might have spent most of his army career behind the fighting lines, but this wasn't exactly a war. He wanted to _help_, damn it!

"This is ridiculous," he said, frustrated, and then realized the person he was talking to was tied up, unconscious in the corner. Ridiculous wasn't even the word.

He couldn't resist the temptation to peek out of the door, though. Up the hall, the guards had found something to use as a battering ram and they were pounding at the door, which was creaking and groaning. And then, with a crash, they were through. Despite Sherlock yelling at them to stop, at least six guards pushed through the broken door as the three holding the wrought iron coat rack they'd used as a ram dropped it and ran forward, too.

That made nine against five, John thought. Nine very strong, very mean, very employed-by-a-psychopath, tough security guards against five men who had been nearly poisoned to death 24-hours ago.

Sherlock-as-Smog had totally lost control of them now, and that certainly didn't help matters. He should have expected that, John thought, as he came up to stand beside his friend. Sherlock was brilliant and loved giving orders, but he wasn't exactly a team player—not even when he was the one leading the team. Autocratic though he was, he was never really a leader, and in a situation like this with tempers running high? If the situation weren't so fraught with danger, John would almost have relished seeing Sherlock look so out of his depth.

"Can you stop them?" he asked, making his tone as urgent as he could.

Sherlock just shook his head, jaw slack, and then realized John was there and turned quickly. "What are you doing out here?"

"Making sure nobody gets hurt," John said, shouting a bit over the noise of the fray inside. "Why can't you stop them?"

"Look at them. They've gone over into mob mentality. I can't reason with that."

Jesus, thought John. This is exactly why you didn't put geniuses in charge of people. "That's because you don't _reason_ with a mob," he said. "You just make them _stop_."

And without looking back, John pulled out his gun and plunged forward into the writhing mass of struggling men. It had only been seconds, but it had the look of a melee that had been going for much longer. Everyone he could see was bloodied and, while his friends were holding their own, the sheer force of numbers were making a difference—not to mention weaponry. They might not have guns, but Smog's people had clubs and he thought he saw the gleam of knives as well. They weren't fighting to try to contain the problem, either, but to beat Thorn and his people as thoroughly as possible.

This situation was about to get very, very bad.

John shouted, but didn't have the force to be heard above the noise of the outright battle in front of him. And so he pulled out his gun and fired into the ceiling. "That is _enough_!" he shouted, lowering the gun to cover the fighters. "Everybody just _stop_!"

For a moment, he thought it would work. Everyone was frozen, as if a video replay had been paused, showing one burly guard about to ram Kyle's head into a filing cabinet, another three hanging off of Dale, and more.

For a moment, he thought he could maintain order long enough for Sherlock to step up and take control of his men.

For a moment, he thought it would be all right.

But then, just as he thought he heard helicopters in the distance, he very definitely heard his name being shouted and then there was a blow to his head and everything went black.

#

* * *

(Note: No, it's really not that I enjoy knocking John unconscious, but in this case it kind of had to happen, since Bilbo Baggins is knocked out during BOFA. And for those keeping score: 1. Thorn's group, 2. The Erebor security guards, 3. The press and onlookers, 4. The police (pouring through the gates as we speak), 5. Whoever is flying in. Five "armies," as best as I could manage.)


	13. Chapter 13

John woke, groaning.

Everything was quiet, was his first thought. That was a good sign, wasn't it? That meant the fight was over, right? Did they win?

Then he realized he was lying on something soft. So, not the floor then, or a spare desk, but something padded. A gurney? A bed? How long had he been out?

He forced his eyes open, squinting at the light, but feeling only relief when a familiar voice said his name. "It's all right, John."

"Grey? What happened?"

"Apparently your head isn't as hard as you think it is."

"It never is," John said. "What happened? Is Sherlock okay? Thorn?"

"Everybody is relatively unharmed," the older man said, voice soothing. "You were the only one rendered unconscious, and while there were some minor injuries, nothing serious, thanks to you."

John was surprised. "Me? How did I do anything? I was the one unconscious."

"True, but you not only tried to stop the fighting, you also served as an excellent distraction while the helicopters brought in the special forces. Captain Bard was able to restore order fairly quickly."

"Special …" John repeated, feeling dim. "Mycroft did that?"

"Of course he did," came a familiar voice from the doorway. "He wasn't going to let this escalate into a full-fledged battle, not with me right in the middle of it—though that was more to protect my cover, I think, than out of concern for my well-being. Though he was rather concerned about yours."

John scoffed. "Of course he was. Mycroft and I are old friends, after all."

"You don't sound convinced, John." And John could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice.

"I hope he'd rather I were alive than dead," he said thoughtfully, "But I question how far he would go to make that happen."

"In this case," said Grey, "Quite far. He seemed very interested in you, Dr Watson, and was quite concerned when he heard you'd been injured."

John was still having a hard time believing that, and then remembered his Ring. Of course. Mycroft wouldn't let a little thing like death or injury get in the way of finding out how John had got past his security. Pushing that worry to the back of the queue, he watched a medic with a hearing aid bustling about, then asked, "How are the others? Are they all right? Kyle?"

"Physically, everyone is fine, John," Sherlock said. "Though there are some … problems."

"Problems?"

Grey nodded. "Yes, well, Thorn was rather … overzealous and over-stepped a bit."

"I had noticed that," John said, sitting up on what turned out to be a quite comfy couch. Being president of a large company obviously had its perks. "So what did Thorn do?"

Sherlock came over to perch on the arm of the chair opposite. "He was indiscreet, as you noticed. Instead of waiting for things to follow their natural course, he forced the issue."

John nodded. "Videos for YouTube, besieging the office, having an outright battle in the middle of the president's office … yeah, a little indiscreet." He was looking around the room now, seeing the after-effects of the fight. Broken furniture littered the room and there was a patch of blood near the door—where he had been standing, he realized. "So, what happens now, then? Did he blow his chance to reclaim the company?"

Grey sat down, pulling out a pipe and lighting a sweet-smelling tobacco. "Not exactly, but there are … complications."

"What kind of complications?"

"Had he gone through with the original plan, we would have been able to move forward. We could have used the file he recovered—with your help—to prove his innocence and that Erebor had been taken from him and his family unfairly. There would have been legal delays, certainly, but … all would have been well."

John leaned his aching head on his hand. "But?"

"But … the video. The video was a mistake."

Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty's network isn't dead yet. Had the information he uncovered simply gone public so that an investigation could have been launched, all would have been well. Since he made it very clear, however, that _he_ was responsible … Well, this opens him up to some … unfortunate attention."

John's mouth was dry. He could just imagine what drawing the attention of Moriarty's network would mean. "So, what will he do?"

Grey's face was sorrowful as he said, "He has to disappear. He and his nephews will be put into protective custody until it's safe."

Of course they would, thought John. Three more friends to be forcibly removed from his life—though, he supposed Thorn might not technically count as a friend … not quite yet, anyway. But what did it matter now? They'd be whisked away into witness protection and he'd probably never see them again. They might as well be dead. "Can I see them?"

Grey nodded. "I'll see what I can do. Thank you, John."

"Me? For what?"

"For helping them. For keeping them safe. Even when they didn't want you to."

"When Thorn didn't want me to," John said, a little bitterly. Not that it mattered anymore.

"Yet you were a friend anyway. So, thank you."

He reached over to give John's shoulder a gentle squeeze before leaving. John watched him out the door and then turned back to Sherlock, who was watching him with … what was that? Regret? Affection? Remorse? All of them? "You never fail to amaze me, John."

He must be more tired than he realized, thought John, or more concussed, because that didn't make any sense. "Me?"

"You've barely known them three days."

"So? I hadn't known you more than one when I killed for you," John said.

Instead of calming him, that only made Sherlock more enraged. "But I never tried to choke you, John—and Thorn did!"

"So, he's got worse trust issues than I ever had," John said with a shrug. "That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve help. They're good men, Sherlock, all of them. They made me … I wasn't so alone for a while."

Sherlock nodded, face solemn. "I know." He was quiet for a moment. "I can't come back yet."

"I know," John said, "Or at least, I think I do."

"It doesn't matter that Moriarty himself is dead. You won't be safe until his network is gone."

John just sat, leaning back in the comfortable couch, wishing his head weren't aching quite so much. "And I can't come with you."

"That would draw too much attention. I need you to be there, be visible, so they won't suspect."

"While you go into danger without me."

"Yes." Sherlock was watching him now as if trying to memorize his face. "I wish there were another way."

John wanted to protest, to beg to come along. To do something to help, to protect his friend. And then he realized.

There was something he could do.

#

"John," said Mycroft, breezing in an hour later, umbrella casually swinging from his arm. "I believe you have some information for me?"

John turned away from where he was talking to William and Dale. "I don't believe the conditions of our deal have quite been met since Thorn and the boys aren't in the clear yet, but … I won't quibble. I _do_ have something to tell you, though."

"If it's that my brother has already left, don't bother. I expected nothing less."

John licked his lips. "Not exactly."

Mycroft just watched him, with that lazy, slow blink of his that made John feel like he was scanning all the way down to his DNA. "You're not going to renege on our deal, are you?"

"It's complicated," John said, "But I think you'll forgive me."

And so he explained about the Ring. He told Mycroft how he had picked it up entirely by chance outside the Bombast bakery. He explained how, when wearing it, he had fooled Bjorn's scanners—and Mycroft's. How it made him effectively invisible to all electronic surveillance. He said that, even though it looked like a gold ring, it wasn't metal, but some kind of plastic woven through with a filament that, yes, he was quite sure Mycroft and his people would love to dissect.

"That's all very interesting, John," Mycroft said when John had finished. "But it doesn't tell me why this ring of yours is not in my possession now that this task is done."

"Technically," John told him, standing strong, "Our deal is not done yet. Thorn and the boys might be out of immediate danger, but their names aren't clear yet—and won't be until Moriarty's network is safely contained and destroyed, correct?"

"If you must quibble, I suppose…," began Mycroft, brow creased with displeasure.

"And you have a very special agent working toward that end, don't you?" John asked with a meaningful look.

Now Mycroft began to look thoughtful. "More than one, technically, but there is one with whom I have a special interest."

"That's what I thought," said John. "Which is why I gave it to him. I figured he needed it more than you did. Furthermore, once his task is done, our original deal of restoring Thorn's family reputation will be finished, at which time he'll return it to you."

"Will he?"

"He assured me he would—especially once I told him you would be probably take it out of my hide if he didn't."

"You do realize that, had you handed it over, we might have replicated this … ring … so that it could be used by many of our people, not just the one agent?"

"I do," John said, barely a hint of apology in his voice. "But I don't worry as much about them—for one thing, I'm quite sure they're not as reckless as this one. He needs all the protection he can get."

"You do have a point." He was relieved to see a tiny smile on Mycroft's face. "Are you quite sure you can't tell me any more about where this ring came from?"

#

"Does this mean we're not going to see each other again?"

John was almost flattered at the distraught look on Kyle's face. "Well, not for a while, but eventually, if you want to. I'm not going anywhere, you know where to find me."

"But that could be _years_," he all but wailed.

"What, are you six?" asked Phil scornfully. "I mean, God, Kyle, you've known him like three days. Not that they weren't … interesting days, or that we don't appreciate what you did, John."

John smiled at the apologetic back-pedalling. "No worries, Phil. I know what you meant. I'm going to miss the two of you, too."

"And besides, they weren't just any three days. They were an adventure. We would have died if it weren't for you." And to John's complete surprise, Kyle flung himself into his arms, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Awkwardly patting his back, John looked at Phil for help, but the older boy looked like he was feeling tempted to do the same, so John just stood there, making soothing noises. "It'll be okay, Kyle. When all this is over, you'll come visit, okay? Both of you."

"Uncle, too?"

John looked over at Thorn. He was battered and sporting a black eye, but rather than looking fatigued, he looked invigorated, alive, as if the fight had been the battle his entire life had been leading to. He was explaining something to one of Mycroft's men, but when he saw John being strangled by Kyle's hug, excused himself and came over. "That's enough, Kyle. The doctor needs to breathe."

The young man's arms just tightened, and John said, amused, "I know, breathing's boring. Though, really, don't you think it's time to let go?"

Kyle nodded and sniffled a bit before backing away. "I'm sorry, I just … I'm going to miss you."

"It's only until it's safe," John said. "You'll be coming to visit again before you know it. Isn't that right, Thorn?"

Thorn was looking uncomfortable. "Kyle and Phil, certainly. And … am I still welcome?"

John lifted his eyebrows. "Of course."

"Because … I should apologize, doctor, for my behaviour. I should not have put you at risk that way, when you were only trying to help. I … have no excuse."

John agreed with that, but thought it probably wouldn't be tactful to say so. "You did get a bit carried away."

"That's an understatement," Thorn said, agreeing. "Unfortunately, there are repercussions."

"Like being put into protective custody for the foreseeable future," John said drily.

"Exactly like that—which means we won't be able to thank you the way we should."

John offered a smile. Despite the man's faults, he didn't want their last conversation to be antagonistic—especially with the two young men watching. "No, it means you don't get to thank me properly _now_. Once all this … difficulty … is taken care of, though … well, then I'll expect a proper thank you for saving your neck. I'll want the complete story, too."

Thorn smiled. "Dinner then, with the six of us."

"Seven, I hope," John said, thinking about Sherlock.

Thorn only sighed. "Seven … if we must. But I look forward to it because, truly, we owe you a debt, Dr Watson. I am truly grateful for your help."

John took the extended hand and endured the sudden hug he was pulled into. "I'm glad I could help. Just … watch out for these two while you're gone."

"I will," Thorn said, wrapping his arms around his nephews and leading them away, leaving John to wonder if he would ever see them again.

And with that, feeling oddly bereft and alone, he headed for the door.

Nobody stopped him on his way home.

#

* * *

(Note: Naturally, there's more coming. I can't leave John all alone now, can I? Besides, don't you know that thirteen is an unlucky number? Especially for this story! So, one chapter to go… And, no, I couldn't quite bring myself to kill Thorn and his nephews, canon or no canon, though they're effectively "dead" until, well, until Sherlock can resurrect all of them.)


	14. Chapter 14: Epilogue

**Two Years Later**

John's first clue that it was over was the headline on the morning paper.

"Crime Lord Moran Brought Down"

According to the article, a two-person team had infiltrated his network and destroyed him, one of the agents, Samuel Gollum, losing his life at the end.

Sam Gollum? Why does that sound familiar? The article didn't give very many details, though, just a story whitewashed and cleared for public consumption. But the name Sebastian Moran … John was fairly clear that he was connected with Moriarty. He wondered, as he sipped at his morning tea, if the other, unnamed agent had been Sherlock.

He hadn't heard anything from Sherlock in the two years since his masquerade as Smog. Nor had he heard much from Mycroft, either—though he considered that to be good news because (1) Mycroft wasn't bothering him, and (2) he liked to think that if Sherlock had actually been killed, Mycroft would tell him. No news was good news, after all.

What could be wrong after all, he thought with a sigh. Sherlock was out there risking his life going after the biggest crime ring in history while John sat here, surrounded by books and notes for blog entries … not exactly what he would have chosen. His life was singularly uneventful, with only Mrs Hudson to worry about him. (She still occasionally brought up his unexplained absence. "_I was thinking of auctioning off your things to pay your rent, John_," she had teased him when he'd come back. "_Next time, tell me when you're going out of town, dear_.")

Still, hopefully this news meant that Sherlock was finally a day closer to coming home.

He was thinking about pouring a second cup of tea when his phone rang. "John? It's William Fundinson. Did you … see the news this morning?"

"About Moran? Yeah." John wasn't altogether surprised to find William on the line—in the two years since Sherlock had "died" and Thorn, Phil and Kyle had "disappeared," he had often gotten together with the Fundinson brothers. In fact, immediately what they jokingly called the Battle of Erebor, the brothers had found him at the train station and insisted he come back to William's cottage for the night. He had ended up staying for several as they came to grips with their absent friends. In the years that followed, they'd bonded over having friends who were "gone" but not really _gone_.

"Do you think…?"

"I don't know what to think, William, but the name's familiar. I assume somebody's bound to let us know when it's time."

"Right, laddie," William said, sounding faintly disappointed. "You'll let me know if you hear anything?"

"Definitely," said John. "If you'll do the same."

He tried not to let that conversation bother him, but the feeling of anticipation had gotten under his skin and refused to leave. He switched the telly on, hoping the news would have more detail, but as always, the Press only served to disappoint. They never did give the kind of information he hoped for—and going from his own experience, he was always doubtful about their facts, anyway.

He considered calling Mycroft, but felt that might be … hasty. He would just wait. News this big would shake the ground—it could take time for the fallout to make itself known at 221B Baker Street. Even if Moran's downfall meant Sherlock was done, it could be a while before he was home.

But John couldn't shake the hope that it would be sooner rather than later. Surely Moran was the last remnant, the last, big evil in Moriarty's network? By rights, taking him down should make the world safe for everyone, with just little criminal remnants scurrying for cover now that he was gone. Getting rid of an evil of this scale—and Moriarty and Moran definitely qualified as evil—was huge.

Really, though, why was the name Samuel Gollum ringing bells?

#

It was three days later that John came home to find Sherlock sprawled asleep on the couch. John paused at the door, hands clenching in the handles of his shopping bags as he fought to catch his breath, and then he quietly moved into the kitchen to drop them on the table.

He turned back to the living room, and stood, observing. Sherlock looked … well … he looked terrible. Whatever he had been doing had been an ordeal. John was well used to the way Sherlock neglected himself on cases, but never like this. He looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks, and this was probably the first time he'd slept, too. He had a bandage wrapped around his left hand and while John longed to know what injury was under the wrappings, he wouldn't bother his friend for the world.

In fact, at the moment, there was really nothing he wanted more than to stand right here and watch Sherlock sleep, alive, on his couch.

He did spare a thought for the milk he'd brought home and backed away into the kitchen, only turning his head away from his sleeping friend long enough to rummage in the bags for the perishable items which he hurriedly stashed in the fridge before going back to his chair in the living room.

Sherlock really did look terrible, he thought. What had he been doing to himself? This was why John should have been there, to look after him. How had he ended up in this condition? The only real comfort was that his breathing was steady and he didn't seem to have a fever. Anything else could wait until he woke up.

Although … he pulled out his phone and, considering, muted the volume so it wouldn't waken his friend, and then sent a text. "_Anything I should know?_"

The answer came back in moments. "_Nothing serious. He just needs rest. MH_"

"_His hand?_"

_Will be fine. MH_"

John frowned at his phone—a frustratingly short exchange, though he supposed it covered the things he most needed to know. If Sherlock's health were dangerously impaired, Mycroft would have said.

After a time, though, he stood and went into the kitchen. He needed tea, something to calm his nerves. Which was a laugh, really, because John Watson was famous for being cool in a crisis, but somehow, watching Sherlock asleep on the couch while he waited for him to wake was one of the most nerve-wracking things he'd ever done. He was altogether jittery.

He filled the kettle, making a point of keeping the noise down without trying to actually be silent. He knew how it was when you'd been undercover for too long—anything resembling sneaking was going to set off your nerves worse than a person walking past normally.

Still, when the familiar baritone came from the next room, "I'll take some tea if you're making it," John's hand clenched at the kettle. Sherlock really was home, he thought, pulling out the teapot. Somehow, this called for more than just a teabag flung into a mug.

"Your hand?" he asked several minutes later, as he handed Sherlock a cup.

"Oh, that. Broken finger. It'll be fine."

"How'd that happen?"

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "Really, it was your fault, John."

"Mine?"

"Yes, and that ring of yours … which I'm afraid I won't be able to return after all."

"Mycroft's going to blame me for that," John said, trying not to think about the ways that could really be considered worrying.

Sherlock shook his head as he sipped at his tea, an expression of bliss flitting across his face. "No, I made it quite clear it was his fault for involving that irritating little man."

John was just confused. "What irritating man?"

"With the ring," Sherlock said, as if it were obvious.

"Sherlock, do I need to remind you that you've been on a _secret_ mission these last two years and that I don't have any idea what you've been doing?"

"You do remember the ring you gave me?" John nodded, trying to be patient. "And that you told Mycroft where you'd found it?" Another nod. "Well, then. He tracked down the original owner—Samuel Gollum."

John felt like smacking himself in the head. "Golly Gee Sam, of course. I remember him from the bakery. The fish!"

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, don't remind me. He was obsessed with fish. He even had a _song_."

"But, how did you two end up working together?"

"We didn't," his friend said with a smirk and took another sip of tea as he leaned back into the sofa cushions. "Mycroft made a _mistake_." There was no mistaking the relish in Sherlock's voice.

John just grinned back at him. "Mycroft Holmes? A mistake? I thought that was illegal."

"You would think so," said Sherlock, smiling back. "After he'd tracked down Gollum, he tried to find where he'd gotten the ring, but during the questioning, Gollum somehow … and I'll give him this much credit. The man was more annoying than Anderson—quite literally, maddeningly insane, and cursed with some of the most annoying speech patterns it has ever been my misfortune to encounter—but in his own way he was brilliant. Crafty, at least. Somehow he worked out from Mycroft's questions that I had the ring. He escaped—even I don't know how—and came after me."

John could feel his eyes widening. "That's not good."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "It was supremely annoying. But in the end … in the end, it worked out for the best."

John watched as Sherlock's eyes lost focus, as he concentrated on something inside his head. In John's experience, this could go on for a while, so after a minute, he headed toward the kitchen. Sherlock needed to eat something. He found some leftover tomato sauce from Angelo's and poured it into a pot, and then filled another with water. He wasn't up to much cooking, but pasta he could do.

He checked back, and saw Sherlock still sitting, eyes watching nothing John could see, and he turned back to his cooking with a nod.

Twenty minutes later, he gave Sherlock a nudge and handed him a plate. "You need to eat. And then I want to hear what happened to your hand."

#

"I can't quite explain it," Sherlock said later. "The science is …"

"If you're belittling my intelligence again, Sherlock…" John warned.

"No, that's not it. Not this time. It's that … the science doesn't make sense. It could almost have been magic for all the sense it made."

"The Ring?"

"Yes. Even with Gollum's notes, neither Mycroft, his technicians, or I were ever able to figure out how it worked … just that it did, and Gollum was determined to get it back."

John nodded. "You said before that he followed you."

"Which turned out to be fortunate. The ring was invaluable these last two years, you know, enabling me to slip in places unseen, but it turns out that, somehow, Moran's people were able to detect when the ring was being used. I'm not sure if it was during the actual use or by studying the records later and seeing the gaps for what wasn't there, but the end result was the same."

"That's not good."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, because that's how they were able to lay a trap. They deduced my next stop—Moran's headquarters at Morder." He snorted a bit in disgust. "_Morder_, of all things. The name was his lame attempt at a blend of his name with his favourite pastime."

"Murder."

"Exactly. It just made him look like he didn't know how to spell, the idiot. Anyway, he'd gotten hold of enough of Gollum's research to figure out a way not only to interfere with the ring's cloaking effect, but to track it through the connection. Something which should be utterly impossible to do, any more than static coming down a radio signal can locate the radio receiver. It makes no logical sense, but … he imagined it should happen and so somehow it did."

"Locating a cloaking signal _because_ it was a cloaking signal," said John. "That … that doesn't make sense."

"I know," Sherlock said, and his voice was both disgusted and intrigued. "It makes about as much sense as some of those absurd movies you enjoy watching, but … somehow it happened."

John just leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. "If you say so. So then, what? Moran lays a trap by locating the ring and it … breaks your finger?"

"Not quite," said Sherlock, smiling, "Because that's where Gollum comes in again. He'd been trailing me, you'll remember, making a nuisance of himself, and was determined to get the ring back. He claimed he knew a way into Morder and once we were inside, attacked me to steal the ring back, tearing it off…"

"And breaking your finger in the process," said John. "And then … he put it on just in time to spring the trap himself? This really is like a James Bond film, or that fantasy trilogy from a few years ago."

"I did tell you," Sherlock said, "But in the end, Gollum's stealing the ring worked out for all of us—well, except for him. Moran had put lasers into the walls, and in his distraction … Gollum triggered them. The power surge briefly shorted the building's power, which lowered the security defences so that I was able to get into the most highly-protected room they had with no more than a simple lock-pick. I physically removed the computer hard drive before the power came back and, well, between that and the dead body, it was all Mycroft's people needed."

John was shaking his head. "That is the most incredible story I've ever heard. So, in the end, your two years of trying to bring down Moriarty's network came down to the destruction of a semi-magical ring that was a death trap."

"Essentially, yes."

John just sat for a moment, and then said simply, "Well, all right then." They sat in silence for a few minutes, with no sound other than a gently ticking clock John had installed on the mantelpiece. Then John asked, "So … how much trouble am I in with Mycroft?"

"None," said Sherlock. "Even if the ring was almost my downfall there at the end, it saved my neck enough times that I believe my brother was glad I had it—and either way, he can't blame you for Moran's trap. And, as to the technology … there's no question he wanted to be able to create more of them, but … can you imagine? Mycroft being able to send agents anywhere without detection?"

"That's a lot of power, even for the British Government," said John, chilled at the thought. "And all power corrupts."

"And absolute power corrupts absolutely. Exactly. The thought of Mycroft in charge of a whole series of rings with that kind of power…" Sherlock thought a moment, then said, "Besides, he interferes in our lives enough as it is. He doesn't need a ring to make it any easier."

"God, no." They sat quietly for a few minutes, and then John said, "So, Glad Golly Gee Sam, huh? I spent all of two minutes with the man and wanted to scream. How did you manage…"

"Not to strangle him? Believe me, it wasn't easy."

#

Several nights later, there was a knock at the door. Wearily, John trudged down the stairs—he'd been hoping for an early night. Bringing England's only Consulting Detective back from the dead was turning out to be exhausting. Very few people knew he was back yet, though, so he wasn't sure who would be calling…

He opened the door, and couldn't help the smile spreading across his face. "Dale," he started to say, but the man interrupted.

"Dale Fundinson, at your service," his friend said with a bow, before heading up the stairs. John just blinked after him, struck with an odd sense of déjà vu … which was only reinforced moments later, when the bell rang again. He opened the door to find William's smiling face and just stood there, bemused, as the man gave his own bow and started for the stairs. John felt a flutter of excitement stirring as he shut the door, but stayed in the foyer, waiting … hoping. The Fundinsons had visited any number of times in the last two years, but never like this. This was too like the night he had met them all.

He couldn't help but wonder at the timing—this unexpected visit coming so soon after Sherlock's return.

He remembered Thorn promising dinner with the seven of them, but what if he'd changed his mind? What if he'd decided that he didn't want to see John and Sherlock, that the memories from that night at Erebor were too painful? Or he could just be busy … if the three of them were being resurrected along with Sherlock, he was probably buried in paperwork and might not have the time to stop for dinner. It's not like they'd had a chance to become _friends_, after all—more like comrades-in-arms for one, brief mission, and it's not like John had even gotten the impression that Thorn had trusted him, much less liked him. Even if he had saved the man's life …and just as his thoughts got caught in this downward spiral, there was another knock.

And when he opened it …

"Phil."

"And Kyle Durin."

"At your service," they ended together, as John pulled them into a hug. He couldn't believe the relief at seeing them again. As glad as he was that Sherlock was back (even if not yet officially resurrected), he thought he might even be happier to see these two young men.

"Let me see you," he finally said, pulling back. "How could you possibly have grown?"

"Outward, anyway," said Phil with a laugh. "Even Kyle's not as scrawny as he was."

"Scrawny! I was never scrawny. I was _slender_." The younger man's voice was indignant.

John just shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You both look wonderful—very manly and grown-up … which makes a change." He looked back out the door as the two of them protested, and smiled to see Thorn and Grey standing there, arms full of shopping. All he said as he pulled the door open wide was, "Come in. I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

"If you're sure we're welcome, doctor?"

"Of course you are, Thorn," John said. "You owe us dinner, and I try never to turn down free food. Get in here. You too, Grey. It's been a while."

The older man gave a nod as he stepped inside. "I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me, either, after the trouble."

John smiled. "I'm used to my friends getting me into trouble. It's the disappearing for years afterward that bothers me." There was a burst of laughter upstairs and then a large crash, as if something (or a lot of somethings) had broken. "I think we'd better get upstairs before they wreck the flat."

Thorn sighed, shaking his head. "I'm beginning to think those boys will never grow up."

"Them?" asked John. "It's Sherlock I'm worried about. If that was one of his experiments that just broke…"

"We'd better hurry."

And, laughing, they hurried up the stairs.

#

THE END

* * *

(Note: So, yeah … Sherlock did the Frodo thing. Not quite sure how that happened except that John gave him the damn ring, and Sherlock WAS going after the Big Bad, and it FIT, darn it. And anyway, was I the only one worried about the idea of Mycroft getting his hands on the Ring, magic or not? No, it simply had to be destroyed so … Honestly, it was as much a surprise for me as I hope it was for you. Even Sam Gollum's name … I swear, I named him Sam because of the sound of Smeagol; I wasn't thinking Gamgee and Mount Doom at ALL at the time. The idea of Sherlock destroying the Ring didn't even occur to me until I was writing chapter 10 or so. But … I suppose this is the beauty of a plot that hangs together just right … even the pieces you're not concentrating on are doing what they're supposed to in the background. It's my absolute favourite part about writing. I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have! Combining two such different universes and stories while staying true (hopefully) to both was challenging, to say the least, but so, so much fun.)


End file.
